


Now That The Chips Are Down

by SailorFish



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins, Personal Assistant to one of the richest men in the country, has been asked to care for his large estate, and all who live on it, while the man's away on business. Examining the enormous, intimidating building, he decides he's not particularly looking forward to it.</p><p>Meanwhile, Thorin Oakenshield, unfortunate slave to one of the richest men in the country, has been ordered to treat the Acting Lord of the Manor with every courtesy he'd offer to his real master, for a whole year. Kneeling, anxious, in the entryway, he's <i>definitely</i> not looking forward to it.</p><p>This is a story about how feelings can change.</p><p> <br/>(AKA: this fandom needs more Slavefic AU!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and the choice is yours if you're willing to choose

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an expansion of one of the AUs in [Second Left and Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1963986/chapters/4556400); the first chapter is a sort of re-write of Bilbo's side of it, but don't worry, the second chapter will be completely new. ;) Btw, side-note, all the titles are lyrics from the album [Hadestown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JzSHReiG0c&list=PL0D42b_Dj0HR7FF8mDHU7CzZKLPwh1AyK), mainly because I was listening to it on repeat while writing. Check it out!
> 
> **Warning** : The archive warnings are there mostly because of discussions of past physical and emotional abuse, and all the emotional consequences that that entails. I will try to warn if something more graphic comes up in a particular chapter so you can skip ahead. But... yeah, please read with care.

Bilbo couldn’t help gulping as he looked at the house. And then looked at the house some more. There was just -- there was just so _much_ of it. He had known his boss was rich of course; you couldn’t be a PA to one of the wealthiest bankers in the country for over nine years without knowing exactly how much money the man had, to the minute detail. But knowing it and seeing it so blatantly were two different things entirely. Bilbo took it all in: the highly ornate, intimidatingly gigantic body of what must surely have been a straight-up castle back in its day; the lush, gaudy gardens that sprawled out to either side of it; the tall, gracefully wrought iron gate he had just driven through. Standing there in his comfortable knitted sweater, next to his little pea green car, Bilbo found himself feeling altogether quite small.

For Heaven’s sake, he wasn’t even supposed to have been allowed to work for Mr. Smaug in the first place! Bilbo, with his Master’s degree in English Language, had been vastly underqualified (or, in another sense, overqualified) for the job he had come to interview for. It was only sheer luck that Mr. Smaug had been passing by and stuck his head in to see how the potential candidate was doing. For whatever reason (his employer tended to do things _just because_ ), he had found Bilbo’s useless ability to quickly figure out any riddle thrown at him hilarious enough to hire him for. 

And now here he was, nearly a decade later: quite without conscious intent, apparently risen up enough in the ranks to be considered trustworthy. While Mr. Smaug was away on business to China, he was to be acting Lord of the Manor, trusted enough to help carry out the boss’ orders in regards to the management of the bank, and trusted enough also to see to the day-to-day affairs of Mr. Smaug’s enormous personal estate.

And, most importantly, trusted enough to care for the Manor’s inhabitants.

He allowed himself another gulp at the thought. Maybe he should have worn something more formal… Would he be feeling less overwhelmed right now if he had put on one the crisp suits he had to wear to work? But no, this was going to be his home for a whole year. There was no sense in pretending to be someone he wasn’t. And besides, Bilbo reminded himself, the inhabitants of the castle were _slaves_. Mr. Smaug’s rarely seen, highly mysterious, probably-as-haughty-as-the-man-himself slaves, but still! His employer had assured him that he’d be treated with the same courtesies as if he was their actual master. So that probably ruled out them laughing at his choice in sweaters. Hopefully.

...He should have worn a jacket.

Well, it was too late now. Bilbo squared his shoulders. It was time to meet his new housemates. ...Should he take his suitcases and cardboard boxes with him? But he didn’t want to make a bad impression by tripping over them. Besides, probably someone would help him out with them later. Bilbo had never properly met a slave before: nobody in his firmly middle-class circle of family and friends would ever be rich enough to even dream of owning one. (And the whole ex-convict thing tended to put people off too.) But he’d seen them around sometimes, on the street and trailing after clients at the workplace. Helping with suitcases seemed like the sort of thing they would do. On the other hand, he didn’t want to seem ungrateful, and he _was_ the one intruding on their home...

Thus, suitcase-less but wearing a small backpack, Bilbo marched down the gravelled road that cut a way through the perfectly mowed grass, and then up the wide, elegant stairs. Finally standing opposite the lavishly gilded door though, he couldn’t find it in himself to knock. And no, he was _not_ just dawdling about to delay the moment even further. Mostly. It was just that he had opened the gates himself too, and, well, it felt rather silly knocking on the door of his new home. Anyway, the mansion looked big enough that he doubted anyone would hear his quiet tapping in the first place. So, with one final gulp, Bilbo turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped into his new future.

And then almost ran back out again.

There, in the entrance hall, was a man. A man, kneeling on the cool marble floor, head pressed to the ground and arms twisted to be clasped behind his back.

Oh.

“Er, hello, I’m Bilbo Baggins and er, um,” said Bilbo, because what do you say to a person whose face is hidden by the floor?

“I am at your service, Master.”

...And that was apparently what was said _to_ you by a person whose face was hidden by the floor. A person in an extremely uncomfortable position, on a very cold floor, with a completely emotionless voice, who would most definitely help Bilbo with his bags because he was at Bilbo’s service, _Master_.

_Oh._

Bilbo forced himself to pause and re-examine the situation. He saw rich and powerful people every day at work, and some of them brought their slaves with them. Yes, those slaves had never done more than nod at Bilbo and bow to their masters and mistresses, but that was in a _bank_. Probably this was normal if you were meeting your sort-of-new-master. Probably this was expected. Probably it was Bilbo freaking out over nothing. Mr. Smaug _had_ said he’d be treated with the exact courtesies as Mr. Smaug himself.

...Bilbo couldn’t imagine coming home to a person kneeling at his feet every day.

And speaking of which... he flushed a little; the man had not so much as twitched the whole time Bilbo had been gathering his scattered thoughts. Which was quite disturbing, actually. So he opened his mouth, hoping that something smart would come out.

It didn’t.

“Er, thank you,” Bilbo said and demonstrated once again why he was better at the written word than the spoken. “Please do get up though, that doesn’t look very comfortable…”

At that, the man finally raised his head. He sat back on his heels, back straight, hands still clasped behind him. Bilbo could see him properly now: too long hair framed a too thin face. He looked careworn and gaunt, more sinewy than muscular. Altogether, he looked just as his voice had suggested he would look: downtrodden and closed off. This was supposed to be a hardened criminal, useless to society unless kept on the shortest leash possible? It seemed a little unlikely. But --

And then, for one brief instant, the slave’s clear blue eyes met Bilbo’s.

And Bilbo stopped breathing. There was sheer, dark _rage_ burning there. He saw suddenly what the man at his feet should have been -- what he most likely _had_ been: strong and haughty and full of wrath for the undeserving. A man who without that leash would have ripped Bilbo’s throat out as soon as Bilbo had walked in through that overly gaudy door.

But then the moment was gone, and the man was once more reduced to a pitiful figure at Bilbo’s feet. His face as smooth as stone, and his gaze blank and lowered to the floor.

There was a very high chance Bilbo would be murdered by midnight.

“Well,” he babbled, valiantly pretending nothing was very, very wrong. “Good. So. Hello. My name is Bilbo Baggins, here to, er, live here. For now. As I, uh, said already. Anyhow, what about you? That is, what’s your name?”

The man didn’t even twitch at Bilbo making a complete fool of himself, not even when he finally slammed the door shut behind him a little too loudly. (Locking himself in with the monster, Bilbo very determinedly did _not_ think.) It was enough for Bilbo to doubt what he had just seen, just a little. Except Bilbo’s imagination had long been smothered by numbers and graphs; he unfortunately knew very well there was absolutely no way he could have made up that look of pure fury.

“Thorin, Master,” the slave answered.

Bilbo realized suddenly that underneath that bland tone of voice, the slave’s -- _Thorin’s_ \-- throat sounded a little raw. As though he didn’t speak very often. Or as though it hurt. A lot. Which was quite disturbing too. But probably he was just recovering from a really bad cold or something. ...From kneeling on the cold marble floor. ...Which he was still doing. Bilbo could have smacked himself. Mr. Smaug had charged him with taking care of matters on the estate, and here he was, five minutes through the door, messing it up already. Bilbo didn’t want his first Skype conference call with his boss about this assignment to have to include the report, _Oh and Thorin is sick because I got a little, er, flustered, sorry_. Hurriedly, trying not to picture various literal interpretations of the metaphor about limbs being bitten, he offered Thorin a hand to pull him up.

And Thorin flinched.

Not a small jerk from the suddenness of Bilbo’s movements; it was a wild, uncontrollable, full-body recoil from Bilbo’s small, soft hand. In his 36 years of life, no one had ever, _ever_ thought Bilbo to be someone to be flinched from. Until now.

The thought hit Bilbo suddenly, and it sent him lurching back a step, as though mirroring the actions of the slave, horror plain on his face and in his heart. But that was not what sent a hot wave of shame through him.

It was the fact that Thorin had already shifted back into position.

His whole body was still, tense in anticipation; he was plainly waiting for the other shoe to fall. And Bilbo couldn’t believe he had been scared of Thorin for even a second -- not now when it was so obvious who was really terrified around here. How could he have even considered that one brief moment of anger could outweigh the awful subordination that had been instilled in the slave’s every breath? A hardened criminal indeed! Mocking Bilbo’s sweater -- _hah!_ \-- a man who flinched like that -- who moved to stillness like that -- would never look above Bilbo’s _shoes_. Bilbo cursed himself violently -- he should never have agreed to this assignment, he should have taken Gandalf’s hand all those years ago, _he should never have interviewed for the job in the first place!_ He had clearly been underqualified for the position of PA, and he was clearly underqualified for the position of whatever it was he was supposed to be doing here. He should have...

He felt sick.

Was that how the other slaves he had seen at work behaved too, as soon as they were out of that tall tower of glass and windows? As soon as their owners had them somewhere they could not be seen? Was that why they never accepted the biscuits Bilbo had automatically offered them -- because they were too busy trying not to flinch away from his hands?

And there were twelve more of them in this house.

An unlucky number thirteen, who he was stuck with for the whole year just as certainly as they were stuck with him. Because Bilbo knew that he couldn’t just leave them here and resign. Not when there was even a tiny chance that Smaug would find someone who would fulfill the promise of violence that Thorin was accustomed to, that Thorin held himself still for. He would have to stay, would have to suppress his urge to vomit, would have to be the brave one now, if only because there surely wasn’t enough fear in this house to go around. His mother, Bilbo thought bitterly, would have been proud.

“Come now,” he spoke softly, trying to moderate his voice to approximate comfort. “I just wanted to help you up.”

He reached down again, but slowly this time, patiently. Thorin considered the hand for a little while. Or at least Bilbo told himself that was what he was doing; Thorin’s unfathomable face continued to give him no hints. But then, just as slowly, just as carefully, he reached up to take it. Bilbo helped him to his feet. The slave was almost half a foot taller than him, but despite his bowed head, he stood solidly, feet planted as though nothing could knock him over.

It was a start.


	2. while we play the game they fix

Thorin stood, and willed his legs to not cramp up too badly, not too stumble. Five minutes into this new future, and he had two strikes against him already. Even one strike was one too many -- even zero strikes were one too many. And here he was, with two, attempting to stand straight instead of writhing in pain on the ground. As of yet, this bizarre new master hadn’t acted how he should. He had even asked for Thorin’s name, had even helped him up, for some completely unfathomable reason. But how long could Thorin’s luck hold?

 _Not very long_ , had been the answer for the answer for the last twenty years.

He was not willing to bet that that answer would change in the next ten minutes.

So Thorin held still, eyes glued to the floor, and, thank the stars, his legs held still too. He wouldn’t have blamed them for collapsing: he had been kneeling on that cold floor for an hour and a half now. Just as Smaug had ordered him too, he thought bitterly. Utterly whipped, was Thorin.

He could have -- he should have -- he might have realized that Smaug was screwing with him. That there was no way Master Baggins would have come exactly at noon, as Smaug had told them he would. They could have just watched out for the new master’s car, and he could have got into position then. But no -- he couldn’t -- there were the others to think about, and, always, Dis. Going against orders was unthinkable.

On the other hand, maybe, _maybe_ with this new, different master there could be some leeway. Master Baggins would have to reach Smaug, in a completely different timezone, and then Smaug would have to reach to Dis, again in a completely different timezone. Maybe, maybe somewhere along those calls and timezones, Thorin would be able to beg well enough for Master Baggins to reconsider..? After all, this _was_ a man who had reached his hand out to a slave… 

Maybe Thorin could even talk to him about Fili...

Those thoughts would have to wait a little while though. The more pressing issue right now was to attend to the stranger -- no, not the stranger, Thorin reminded himself savagely. The master, always the master. It would not do to slip up -- lazy habits in the mind always led to the worst possible consequences in real life.

And he was slipping up now. Where were Master Baggins’ orders? Had he missed something while trying to keep upright? The only thing he could recall was the awkward silence that had, and continued to, cloud the air. But surely that wasn’t right..? Since when had a master let a slave stand idly? Where were the orders..? All of a sudden, in his bewilderment, he found himself missing the comfort of the floor. Yes, it was always, _always_ , humiliating to kneel there, face pressed to the cool marble, but at least it hid his emotions well! He didn’t know how much longer he could keep the consternation off his face.

“Master?” he finally prompted, and tensed.

“Oh! Er, yes,” came the unexpectedly unthreatening response. Then there was a mumble that sounded something along the lines of, _I guess this is the part where I tell him to do something_ , but that couldn’t be right, and before Thorin could even begin to try to interpret what the new master meant, the man spoke up. “Perhaps you could show me my room? I’m afraid that most of my luggage is still in the car, if anybody could help with that, but I’d love to see my new home first!”

He had a soft voice, when he wasn’t stumbling over his words. Thorin nodded. This new master really was a little strange: he worded his orders as requests. What was the point? They’d obey either way. Still, he couldn’t deny that it was… nice. He’d get Dwalin and Gloin -- no, wait. Not Gloin. Not… right now.

Shoving that thought aside for the moment, he reached out his hands for Master Baggins to dump his rucksack into. And waited. The awkward silence was back.

Thorin tried the prompting thing again. “Your bag, Master?”

“Ah, yes!”

And so, rucksack on his back, Thorin led Master Baggins up the stairs, trying to ignore the crawling, itching feeling at the back of his neck. Someone walking behind him was… wrong. It was a slave’s job to follow, not to lead. Showing a guest the way while walking behind them had always required a delicate dance of precision and politeness; the new master, however, seemed unaware of customs and had cheerfully let Thorin go first. Thorin hadn’t walked in front of a free man in more than a decade. It was completely unnerving. 

A familiar wave of shame swept over him. These were the petty worries of a man who had once been heir to one of the most successful banks in Europe? Surely he hadn’t yet fallen that low. Surely he never would. Surely if he had, he would have bashed his own head in by now, rather than face himself in the mirror. His grandfather and father were lucky they were not alive to see him come to this!

But there was little heat in his self-recrimination. Nearly twenty years of self-loathing meant that he had heard himself think some variation of that rant for a while now; it stung just a little less by time four thousand and one. He _had_ fallen that low. And he faced himself in the mirror just fine, thank you, even if only because looking untidy brought further punishment.

\--*--*--

Lost in his own bitter thoughts, Thorin startled a little when he saw that they had finally reached the right hallway. On the left was Smaug’s private suite, locked up for the year, thankfully (his stomach clenched at the memory of it). There were two offices on the right, one Smaug’s, one the new master’s. And finally, on the far left, were the second biggest chambers.

“Here it is, Master,” said Thorin, as he held open the door open and (finally) let the new master go inside before him. 

These chambers were rarely used; few guests were important enough to be put in Smaug’s personal wing. In the end though, the once happy house was by now fully drenched in bad memories, and this place was no different. The scar on his shoulder twinged at the thought. Thorin hastily put down Master Baggins’ rucksack before something unpleasant could happen.

Then he positioned himself next to it, back straight and against the wall, head still bowed. But he let himself peer up from beneath his lashes. He needed to gauge Master Baggins’ reaction.

Master Baggins, it seemed, was awed.

Small wonder -- though the scuffed brown loafers Thorin had stared at for so long in the entrance hall could surely not be his best (Smaug would never let an employee appear so unkempt before business partners), they still told Thorin all he needed to know. A man with the figure and disposition of an accountant, and an accountant’s wages to go along with them. They would have to watch him carefully: those unused to power let it go to their heads first. And Thorin was not looking forward to being beaten by a man with scuffed shoes and a soft voice.

Still, he tried to consider the room from the perspective of the new master, rather than as another responsibility for Dori, Fili, and Bofur (except not Fili and Bofur, not right now) to keep neat. The room was huge, the largest of the guest quarters. A side door led to a private bathroom, which, unlike the room itself, had been furnished to be ridiculously expensively modern and sleek. The giant four poster canopy bed dominated the room; crisp, white linens, washed and ironed by Dori just yesterday, were spread over them. The window was tilted open, and the heavenly smell from Oin and Ori’s well-tended gardens wafted in. There also stood a large oaken closet, and, matching it, a similar desk and chair. Somebody, most likely that fool Ori, had set up a fresh vase of blooming flowers on the corner of the desk. But even that couldn’t gentle the place any: it was a room made to impress. Even Thorin felt a little uneasy (uneasy, _not_ intimidated), standing in it.

The new master gulped.

“Is this really all just for me?” he said quietly. “Seems an awful waste to have so much space for just one person…”

It was the wrong tone, but it was the right words. Thorin flinched.

There was a loud buzzing in his ears. He had known it would come to this. He had _known_ the cheery librarian act was just that -- an act. He had _known_ it. But he couldn’t help feel the stab of betrayal anyway. What was wrong with him -- had he secretly been that taken by a mere moment of gentle hands? The buzzing in his ears grew louder. Through his rising panic, he tried to focus his thoughts on Dis. Her smiling face gave him the strength to force his mouth open. But no words would come out. He swallowed and licked his lips.

“I can of course send someone up to keep you company, Master.”

His voice was barely more than a croak, but he’d said it. He _had_. Dis would be alright. And so would the others -- he’d knock them out on the way, that would be strike three against him, and the master would forget anyone else existed.

But when the master turned to speak, he sounded confused.

“What? No, no, don’t worry. It would be silly to have roommates in this gigantic house of course!”

And, most bizarrely, he followed up his puzzling statement with a short burst of laughter.

Thorin felt his lips quirking up in response, as they had been trained to, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand the cause of the laughter. But it seemed the danger had passed; the master had changed his mind. Or had he just imagined it all in the first place..? He hadn't had anything even remotely resembling a conversation with a free person for years; he felt dizzy.

“Speaking of the others, though,” the master continued. “Perhaps, if they’re not too, er, busy, I should meet them..?”

Thorin nodded dumbly. Meeting them. Yes. That. Not -- that -- just meeting. Yes. Then he bit the inside of his cheek and snapped himself out of it. Whatever urge had taken Master Baggins was clearly gone, thank the stars. Whether it was confusion or misunderstanding didn’t matter -- Thorin would take either over the… the other thing. And he didn’t have the luxury to puzzle over the past when in the presence of a free man.

Of course, he _had_ been hoping discuss everything with the others first, make sure they all knew what little he had found out about Master Baggins so far, analyze all his actions to see if they could find any way to handle him better than Thorin was so far. Even more importantly, he had wanted to make sure Dwalin wasn’t having one of his fits. But master’s word was law, and the master wanted to meet his new (borrowed) property. If wishes were fishes, and all that.

After a long moment in which Master Baggins again didn’t specify his frustratingly vaguely worded orders, Thorin spoke. “I will call them together, if you follow me to the main hall, Master.”

A murmur of agreement, and so they trotted back downstairs again, Master Baggins on his heels. It was maybe a little less odd this time. He could maybe get used to this -- except he really shouldn’t. Not when he couldn’t at all tell whether that moment in the bedroom had been a fluke, or the master’s true personality shining through. Curse him and his quiet, mellow orders, and curse his bizarre mood swings too! Thorin hadn’t felt this off-kilter for a while.

\--*--*--

The main hall was beautiful, with a glorious chandelier (that was a complete and utter pain to clean) hanging high overhead, and various exquisite paintings lining the wall. A couple of them had used to belong to Thorin’s father; this time, he didn’t begrudge Master Baggins his gasp of awe.

While the master went over to examine the closest painting more closely, Thorin made a beeline for the other side of the hall. There, in an unobtrusive corner, beside an original Monet, was an electronic system that would alert those in the slave quarters that some particular slave was needed in the main hall. He let himself gaze at Monet’s water lilies for a few seconds, steadying himself, and then pressed the switch to summon everyone.

It didn’t take long.

(Every time they were gathered thus, Thorin couldn’t help being reminded of a particular scene in a movie he had watched as a child. The captain would gather all his children with a sharp blow of a whistle, and they would stand up straight, hands clasped behind their back, in a geometrically precise line, exactly as his companions did. At least it was an electronic system in this house -- for now anyway. If Smaug ever caught wind of his thoughts, Thorin had no doubt the whistle system would be implemented immediately. It wouldn’t particularly matter how impractical it would be -- most of the house was out of acoustic range for a whistle -- as long as Smaug got a kick out of it.)

At the very least, Thorin was pleased to note from his own position slightly to the side of their line, everyone looked more or less presentable. Dwalin seemed steady and calm, Bombur didn’t smell of heavy spices and Oin didn't smell of fertilizer, and everyone was more or less clean.

Again, an uncomfortable silence descended. Master Baggins seemed to be good at stating his commands, but not great at following through on them. Well, there was nothing to be done. So far, Thorin’s ability to rescue them all from awkwardness had been met favorably. It didn’t seem to hurt to take initiative -- for now anyway, until Master Baggins began to _truly_ throw his weight around. So, what did the master seem to be interested in… Ah!

“From left to right,” announced Thorin, nodding at the line. “May I present: Balin, Dwalin, Oin, Bifur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, Ori, and Kili.”

Despite a brief incredulous sidewards glance from Balin at this ridiculous routine, he bowed low when his name was called. The others slaves followed his lead. It ended up looking rather more official than Thorin had feared. If nothing else, their merry little troupe had gotten very good at improvising subservience.

After a brief pause, during which Master Baggins presumably attempted to remember and then promptly forgot all their names, he spoke. “Er, there are ten of you here though… Mr. Smaug had said there were thirteen? Are the other three busy?”

Thorin’s lips twisted, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Kili go very still, but it was Nori who but let out a bark of bitter laughter. “You could say that, Master.”

_The idiot!_

“Nori!” Thorin roared.

Nori’s knees hit the ground at the same time as Thorin’s. At least he hadn’t gone completely insane! Thorin would have to have a talk with him later: _not Smaug_ did not mean _not dangerous_. And if Fili was stuck there a second longer because of Nori's thrice-cursed tongue... As for now, it seemed his luck had finally run out. Bizarrely, shamefully, Thorin felt a modicum of relief. This was where he belonged, in the end; the gentle voice had been a good dream for an hour or so, but it was time for the flash of whatever had been spied in the bedroom to come out. For the first time since his brief, uncontrolled, awful, _stupid_ moment of fury in the entrance hall, Thorin raised his face to look the master directly in the eyes.

“He didn’t mean it, Master,” he started, insistently.

“It was just a joke, Master!” cried Nori, _who Thorin was going to murder slowly_.

“He just forgot himself for a moment. My fault, I should have -- ”

“Thorin doesn’t have anything to do with it!”

“He doesn't know what he's saying, poor lad, must have slipped and hit his head while I -- ”

"Can you even hear him, he's blabbering nonsense by now --"

"Please, Master, he -- " 

Master Baggins waved his hands in front of him wildly; the two instantly shut up.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ” he said, sounding completely overwhelmed. “This… I’m not… Look, blast it, just get up! Please!”

A little hesitantly, on the basis that seeming smaller than the master was better, but following orders promptly was best, the two rose.

“Look, I don’t know what you two expect but…” he trailed off. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Thorin had never seen such an expression on a free person before, least of all directed at a slave. A tiny part of his mind hoped the others were staring a little less discretely than he was. “In any case, whatever the other three are up to, it’s clearly not… being busy. Could you take me to them?”

There was a moment of silence; by the looks of it, it wasn't only Thorin who was having difficulty processing this. And then Bifur spoke up, and it startled all of them except Master Baggins, who didn’t know yet that Bifur generally spoke about five times a year.

“Yes,” he said. “We can.”

\--*--*--

In the end, it was the whole bundle of them that trooped down the stairs to the cellars. Or, as Bofur had once blithely nicknamed them, The Dungeons. It was the only place in the house that was neither opulently old-fashioned or bewilderingly modern. The labyrinth of hallways and little rooms was almost completely bare, the monotony of the grey walls broken up only by some wires running along them. It was always dim here; only half the light bulbs ever worked, and they cast flickering shadows over the grime that covered everything but the very air itself.

None of them came here if they could help it. Somewhere behind him, Ori whimpered and then cut himself off sharply. Balin hummed tunelessly under his breath. Thorin didn’t dare look at Master Baggins’ face, for fear of what he’d find there.

He led the master and the others through the maze -- left, right, and then two more lefts. And finally there, there was the little cell, in the very bowels of the house, whose door had remained locked for two weeks now, where no sunlight could reach it. Where Kili had lain down every day, his mouth as close to the little flap in the door as possible, bringing his brother not only food and water but also what good cheer he could.

And there, down the hallway, with the smallest relief of narrow windows up next to the ceiling, were the other two occupied cells, each with its own heartbreaking prisoner: Gloin, who hadn’t eaten in two days, and Bofur, who had spent those same two days _muzzled_ , as if he was no more than a wild beast.

“Here they are, Master,” said Thorin, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and off his face. “The remaining three: Fili, Bofur, and Gloin.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, from Master Baggins and from a couple of the others. Thorin himself wouldn’t be able to breathe until the prisoners’ fate was declared. There was a tense silence.

And then --

“Well, how do we get them out of here, then!” cried the master.

Thorin almost fell over from the sheer relief.

“The -- the keys,” he managed. “Master Smaug should have left you the keys.”

“Oh!” said Master Baggins. He dug into his back pocket, fumbled for a little while, and then drew out an assortment of keys, all attached to one golden ring.

The bundle glinted under the dull light and Thorin stopped breathing once more.

All he felt was pure _desire_. That little golden ring held everything: a key to helping the others out of their torture, a key to the outside gate and a key to Dis, a key to freedom… They could overpower the master easily and take it, take it and run… 

He stayed in that daydream for a minute longer, his eyes fixated on the keys. But reality, as always, crashed back around him. Where would they go, them and their little _key to freedom_? They had no idea how to get around in a world that had moved nearly twenty years beyond them. Besides, every country in the EU had various extradition treaties for criminals. Countries like Communist China, which had no agreements with the EU over escaped criminals, and had also officially outlawed slavery, were rare; Thorin could count them on his fingers and still have fingers left. They were also all far, far away. They wouldn’t make it even a third of the way.

Anyway, what was the point in daydreams when his own reality was becoming so dream-like? Master Baggins was quickly unlocking the cell, and then hurrying off to see to the other two, but Thorin just couldn’t think about the others anymore. Kili popped up beside him as if by magic, and, as one, they pushed open the door and ran to Fili.

In that moment, nothing else mattered.

\--*--*--

“Er, Thorin?” said Master Baggins. “Before you go, could I ask you one last thing?”

Thorin paused at the doorway to the man’s chambers. Turned back to face him properly. After getting the three to the slave quarters and Oin’s healing hands, he and Dori had quickly carried the master's luggage up to the guest chambers. Thorin had just delivered the last box, and his heart was still singing.

“Anything, Master,” said Thorin, and for once, meant it.

“Why... why were those three in there?”

Thorin paused, and considered what his answer should be. He allowed his eyes flick up for a second to the master’s face, and he very distinctly did not say, _Because I failed them_. “They upset the Master over dinner.”

Master Baggins blanched.

“P-perhaps I will eat in my room.”

Thorin nodded, followed it with a deep bow for propriety’s sake, turned on his heel and left.

\--*--*--

First things first: he quickly found Bombur in the common room and asked the cook to get some sort of tray up by dinnertime. A quick glance around revealed that Kili was with Fili, dark and golden head bent together as they whispered fiercely. Good. He’d check up on Fili later, and Bofur and Gloin. For now though… His searching gaze became more intent.

Ah! There he was, sitting in a quiet, dark corner. Thorin’s good mood vanished abruptly, and his earlier anger welled right back up as if it had never disappeared. Seeing Thorin rounding on him, Nori’s face went pale. But he stood up gamely, arms crossed over his chest. His chin was stuck out, stubbornly.

It was all Thorin could do to not slam the idiot against the wall.

“What the hell was that, Nori?!”

“I’m sorry, Thorin, alright?” Nori said, sounding contrite for just a moment. That moment passed quickly. “But you didn’t have to bail me out, alright? I’m not eight anymore. I can take it.”

“ _Can_ you, Nori?” growled Thorin.

“I…” Whatever he saw in Thorin’s eyes, it caused him to wince. But the younger man rallied quickly. “I don’t know! Because you won’t let me find out! And I get it -- Smaug is Smaug, and you and Dis…” He trailed off at the murderous look on Thorin’s face. Switched tracks. “The point is, this guy isn’t Smaug. You don’t get to boss me around anymore, _Fearless Leader_. We get enough of that upstairs without you! And the new guy is _different_.”

“ _Different?_ You’ve only met him for half an hour! Exactly _how_ , Nori, is he different?!”

“Well -- ”

“Well, you’re not limping yet, for one.”

The sudden contribution came from Kili. Thorin whirled around. Predictably, everyone had gathered during their little confrontation. Eleven pair of somber, careful eyes watched Thorin, searching for the tell-tale signs that signaled a person about to rampage. The grin on Kili’s face was crooked.

The anger left him suddenly; he felt weak and dizzy. The buzzing in his ears was back. They were looking at him as though he would hurt Nori, as though he was a stranger, as though he was _a free man_. Their wariness was just as shameful as the humiliations he suffered upstairs. Even more so: when had he and Dwalin become so hesitant around each other, when had… 

“Please, Uncle Thorin. We want to help.”

That was Fili, his hand clasped on Thorin’s shoulder -- Fili, who was finally _out_ , who could go to the gardens tomorrow and the day after that, to the little corner he and Kili had, that no free person had ever discovered. Who could finally lie in the sunshine and _breathe_.

Maybe Master Baggins really was different. A little.

Twelve pairs of eyes looked at him intently, silent and... different, too, now, somehow.

“Alright,” said Thorin quietly, defeated. “Alright. Maybe. I’m sorry for yelling, Nori. I’ll… alright.”

He shook off his nephew’s hand, unsteady, and, despite the early hour and the others’ half-hearted protests, lurched off to bed. The new master had been here for less than a day, and already, the whole world had gone completely askew.

It was not a great start.


	3. of flowers, soft beneath my feet

Bilbo splashed cold water on his face. Thorin’s last words, _They upset the Master over dinner_ , continued to ring in his ears.

He sighed deeply. Those little underground cells had been… well, the word _horrifying_ didn’t even begin to cover it. Bilbo had never imagined it. He could still barely picture it. Smaug, the brilliant, sophisticated president of LMB, who gave regularly and generously to charities, had a cellar, no, a _dungeon_ , where he locked people up. Where he kept someone who upset him in a _muzzle_!

It was like something out of a nightmare.

And he was part of it now, whether he wanted it or not. He couldn’t leave them to anyone else, so he would just have to continue working for someone who starved people and kept them in muzzles. He had signed Smaug’s contract of his own free will, the one where the higher wages and greater responsibility in the office came along with thirteen slaves, to keep until their owner was back. He was complicit in it all, now.

Bilbo had always been afraid to look in the mirror and find someone else. And now he had. A slave owner stared back at him.

He plodded over to his bed, the heaviness of his thoughts weighing down his limbs. He had meant to do some basic paperwork before tomorrow, but at the moment he couldn’t imagine reading anything with Smaug’s signature without wanting to tear it into tiny pieces. He’d just go into the office earlier; right now he just wanted to curl up and think of nothing.

\--*--*--

Bilbo woke up curiously hungry. Ah, not that curiously -- it was already six in the evening. Yawning, he shuffled listlessly to the door. He’d have to see if he could find the kitchen, and borrow a couple eggs. Or just take them, he thought darkly. If he owned the people, did he own their food?

He yanked open the bedroom door violently.

And almost tripped over a figure standing in the doorway. The man was bent over a little folding table, carefully placing on it a tray from which the most delicious smells wafted. Bilbo blinked down at the long dark hair which obscured the man’s face. Thorin..? But as the slave straightened up, it was not Thorin’s eyes that met his. Who..?

_Oh._

It was hard to forget a face you first saw wearing a muzzle.

Bilbo blinked furiously, trying to get rid of the harrowing memories clouding his mind, superimposing what was no longer there upon the present. _After all_ , his mother had always said, _No matter how awful it is for you to see it, it was more awful for them to live it_. The man -- Bifur, no, Bofur -- had no time for Bilbo’s hysterics. Still, it was hard to keep himself contained.

“Should you really be up?” Bilbo blurted out. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to rest?”

Bofur didn’t reply for a second -- a second too long, in fact. Bilbo had the horrible feeling that he had forgotten that he could now speak. But then the man’s face broke into a wide smile, and he bowed.

“Just wanted to say my thanks, Master,” he said.

 _For what?_ Bilbo bit his tongue not to say. The little golden keyring, with its dozen master keys, was heavy in his pocket.

“Anywho,” continued Bofur cheerfully. “It was time to bring up your dinner, and see if there was anything else you’d be needing..?”

Bilbo made to shake his head, but then hesitated. Looking at Bofur’s twinkling eyes and sincere smile, he just… He just couldn’t imagine this man doing something so horrendous over dinner that it deserved such an equally horrendous punishment. Surely Thorin had been mistaken. Surely…

The words rushed out of his mouth before he could take them back.

“Would you mind, maybe, er, telling me what happened?”

He could have slapped himself. How much more vague, insensitive, _stupid_ could he --

“Thorin finally wasn’t fast enough.” It was said with a smile still on his face, without a hint of condemnation. Bofur shrugged. “It happens every once in a while. If you sell your soul to the devil willingly, he might get bored of it sometime.”

Oh. Well that...

“If that’s all, Master?”

At Bilbo’s mute nod, Bofur nodded respectfully, and walked off down the stairs, humming.

As for Bilbo, he picked up the tray and took it inside. And there he sat, eating and mulling over how difficult it was to get a straight answer around here.

\--*--*--

The next morning, he once again found a tray of food outside his room -- but this time no one accompanied it. A frown tugged at his lips: he had not meant to imply to Thorin that they would have to prepare and bring all his meals to his bedroom! It might not be too troublesome to cook for one more person when you already cooked enough for thirteen, but still: bringing up every single meal seemed annoying, and besides, Bilbo _enjoyed_ cooking.

There was no time to worry about it right this second though -- he had work in, oh God, only forty-five minutes. Bilbo dashed inside with the tray.

\--*--*--

It turned out keeping a bank running was much more difficult when the CEO was half-way around the world. Despite all the boss’ emails and his very precise orders, much of Bilbo’s day was still spent just running back and forth between different departments and attempting to mediate between their complaints. He just didn’t have Smaug’s natural charisma, his intimidating presence, or, well, his actual job position. All he had to prove that what he was telling people they needed to do was indeed what they needed to do were some lousy scraps of paper with Smaug’s signature. If only the Beijing deal wasn’t so important...

By the time eight o’clock rolled around -- he had, of course, had to stay overtime to assuage the doubts of one of the board members (by almost literally shoving Smaug’s written orders in the woman’s face) -- Bilbo was more than ready to leave LMB behind.

When he got home, though, he found there was still work to do; it was only an hour later that he decided he could probably at least take a break. He stretched. This new office, which was directly opposite his room, was spacious, and the swivel chair in front of the desk was comfy -- a little too comfy maybe. It was time to clear his head, otherwise he’d fall asleep right there.

Maybe he should poke around the manor a bit more… He had no idea where anything was, yet. It had taken him two tries to find his room on the way back from work! Besides, maybe he’d find one of his fellow co-inhabitants: he hadn’t seen a soul since Bofur, the day before, and he had no idea how to find them. The electronic system that Thorin had used in the entrance hall just seemed… a little awkward. Mind thus made up, he pushed himself away from his work.

The first place he headed to was the floor directly below his. Unfortunately, the place was abandoned; every door he opened turned out merely to lead to walk-in closets and some clearly unused guest bedrooms. Bilbo couldn’t imagine ever having enough people round that he could fill them all, not even if he invited all his extended family and distant cousins; if Smaug ever needed money, he could comfortably open a four star hotel right here. Grinning at the idea of Smaug, Billionaire Extraordinaire, running a hotel, Bilbo walked another floor down.

And there -- he finally spotted an open door! Light came from inside; one of the others must be in there. Perfect!

“Hello!” said Bilbo cheerfully, walking in.

It turned out to be a small dining hall that he walked into. A very well polished table and some velvet-covered chairs stood in the middle of the room; next to them, a tall, rickety step ladder had been erected. On top of it stood one of the slaves, tightening some screws on one of the giant chandeliers that seemed to hang in every room of the mansion.

Nori’s eyes widened as they met Bilbo’s.

The day was finally turning around! Bilbo had been meaning to talk to Nori since the bizarre argument in the living room.

But the words died on lips when he saw the man’s face. Nori’s features twisted for a moment, different emotions skittering over his face too fast for Bilbo to interpret. Finally, he settled on a sort of rueful resignation. The man sighed softly.

Then he dropped his wrench on the top step and hurriedly clattered down the ladder -- so fast Bilbo thought he’d trip and tumble down the rest of the way. Indeed, Nori landed on the floor hard -- hard, on his knees, his head touching the floor, going into the same awful pose Bilbo had first seen Thorin in.

There was silence.

Bilbo stared down at the bowed head. This was… this was… this wasn’t what he had expected. This was _Nori_ , the louder one, who had laughed in Bilbo’s face and argued with Thorin. Any second he’d stand up, and roll his eyes at the stupid pose Thorin had probably forced him into.

The silence stretched. Nori’s head remained bowed. Bilbo had had a long day -- a long, awful day, where he had run from person to person and from problem to problem, from eight to eight, and the problems had still remained. It still hadn’t been enough. And now he was home, and it still continued to not be enough.

And Bilbo found that he just couldn’t deal with yet another problem.

“Er, nevermind. I’ll just… be going… now,” he stammered out.

Then he turned on his heel and went straight back to his rooms, and didn’t come out his rooms ‘till work the next day.

He’d explore some other time.

\--*--*--

But then Sunday rolled around, and he only had a half day at the office, and it was the first time in three days that he’d be able to see the spring sunshine in the flesh, as it were, and not through a window. The vivid colors and sweet smells of the garden beckoned. Perhaps it was once again time to explore.

He must have wandered for hours: swooping down to sniff at the sweet alyssum and the lily-of-the-valley, admiring the tendrils of the clematis and the wisteria, soaking up the sunshine alongside the dahlia and gardenia. And then there were all the flowers he had never seen before, had never even heard of, for all that his father’s green thumb had meant that Bilbo’s childhood home was constantly full of plants. He snapped pictures of those exotic beauties on his phone, marveling at them and looking forward to looking up more about them. But that was for later -- for now it was time to enjoy the tranquility of the outside.

That tranquility was interrupted suddenly -- by something even better.

 _Laughter_.

Laughter -- proper laughter, not snorts of derision or polite chuckles -- he hadn’t heard it in the last few days at all. Bilbo hurried towards the sound, already grinning at the joke he hadn’t yet heard.

There, just around the corner, he found them: it was two of the youngest, flopped down on the grass and shaking with mirth. The older of them was Fili, the first one Bilbo had freed -- no, not freed. Taken out of one level of hell to put back into another, maybe. The teenager had heard Bilbo’s footsteps, and his laughter cut off abruptly; he looked up now with a horrid look of panic on his face. He had looked pale before, but now he was like a ghost, translucent and terrified.

The other boy next to him jumped up. He had the same eyes as Thorin, and his face had gone as impassive as Thorin’s did. If the blankness was unnerving enough on the adult’s face, it was downright disturbing on a young teen. He reminded Bilbo suddenly of a robotic toy, an automaton with smooth plastic for a face.

“M-Master! We weren’t slacking, we -- ”

“We beg for your forgiveness -- ”

Bilbo couldn’t help it. For the second time in as many days, he fled.

Exploring lost all appeal.

\--*--*--

And so the next day he was fully prepared to continue his miserable routine of not seeing anyone at all before he left for work in the early morning, and not seeing anyone after he returned. He was sick of exploring, and if the whole year he and the others could co-exist peacefully enough that he didn’t have to see anyone stumbling over themselves to prostrate themselves before him, he would be fine with pretending he was the only occupant of this house.

But that option was taken from him when he listlessly plodded into his room and found that someone was already in it.

It was the third of the youngsters, replacing the flowers on Bilbo’s desk -- no, he was clearly _supposed_ to be there to replace them, judging by the slightly wilted bouquet in his hand, but that wasn’t what he was doing. Instead, he was poring over the book Bilbo had been reading before work and had left open on the table: _Don Quixote_. The teenager must have been completely absorbed; he hadn’t given any sign he’d heard Bilbo walk in.

All of a sudden, a painful burst of hope flared once again in Bilbo’s chest. A fellow book lover, in this place! Surely this was someone of his own kind, someone he could talk to. No matter what, he would _not_ scare this one away.

He coughed pointedly, trying not to show his giddiness on his face.

The youngster must have jumped a full foot in the air. He turned around, ashen, eyes wide.

“I- I -- ”

“Yes, yes, you,” interrupted Bilbo quickly before he could start. “You’re very sorry for slacking off, I’m sure. Consider it forgiven. But please, sit down.”

He waved at the chair near the desk; the teenager sat down heavily. What was his name… ah yes, Ori. (Working as a PA for nine years did wonders for the ability to remember names.) Bilbo considered the youngster before him: trembling violently, the flowers clutched before his chest like a shield. He softened his tone.

“Really, please, don’t worry,” Bilbo said, and sat down on his bed, trying to make himself look like less of a threat. “If I always had to get cross at someone because they had their nose in a book instead of working, I’d have to be cross with myself every single day!”

He smiled widely, and was rewarded by a tiny quirk of the lips in return.

Encouraged, he pattered on.

“And really, that one's a most excellent edition too! Grossman’s work, you know: very readable, much simpler to go through than some of the older translations. We had to read Ormsby’s for class when I was an undergrad, I had to draw little arrows trying to figure out which pronoun belonged to which antecedent…”

He chuckled, but cut himself of at Ori’s blank look. Oops. Still, the teen had stopped trembling, if only out of sheer confusion. This was longer than Bilbo had lasted with any of the others so far; he counted it as a win.

“Ah, have you read _Don Quixote_ before?” said Bilbo.

A small shake of the head answered him.

“How wonderful!” Bilbo went on, undiscouraged. “You can only read a book for the first time once, after all. Would you like to borrow it then?”

Another shake of the head followed, this one more fervent. Bilbo frowned.

“But you seemed so interested in it a moment ago! Didn’t you like it?”

“I… I can’t,” whispered the youngster. “It’d take me forever to read it.”

“Well, that’s not a problem. I’m here all year!”

“No,” said Ori, looking down at his feet. “It -- it would take longer than that. I… I can’t really read.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Of course. Bilbo’s heart sank. How could he have been such an idiot: an underage boy who was already enslaved. Exactly how long would he have been in school -- if he had been in school at all? Who knew when his parents had amassed so much debt that the government had come knocking? And when the government came knocking, they did it indiscriminately. It was a wonder if the youngster even knew the alphabet, really.

Bilbo opened his mouth, ready to apologize and tell the poor kid to forget the whole thing -- but then he looked, _really looked_ at Ori’s miserable, yearning expression.

His face spread into a wide grin.

“Tell me, Ori, how would you like to _learn_?”

\--*--*--

They had agreed that Ori would come over the next day, at nine. That gave Bilbo a little time to prepare for the first lesson. Hey, so what if the last time he had taught anyone, it had been a first year undergrad tutorial group, on English word formation? Teaching was teaching; Bilbo could still do it! Probably. In any case, that had been why he had wanted time before the lesson in the first place: to google everything he could about helping functionally illiterate teenagers. And Ori had been coaxed into confirming that he did know the alphabet and a little more after all, so they weren’t starting straight from zero.

He had ransacked his bookshelf to find a good book to start with too: a collection of funny folktales from around the world. A friend from another department had lent it to him all those years ago, but he had… not been able to go back after those summer holidays. Still, the book had suddenly proved extremely useful, and Bilbo was sure she would be happy it had come in handy in this way.

He was idly flipping through it when a soft knock on the door interrupted him. Bilbo jumped up from the desk and flung open the door eagerly.

But it was Thorin’s bowed head that greeted him. Next to him stood Ori, his face pinched and white. Bilbo frowned.

“Master,” began Thorin politely, sketching that bow that Bilbo was rapidly becoming sick of. “I wanted to come and apologize on Ori’s behalf.”

“Er, what?” was Bilbo’s eloquent response. He blinked at the dark-haired man.

“He did not mean to bother you with his requests. It won’t happen again,” said Thorin firmly.

“It wasn’t a bother!” protested Bilbo, cheerfully. “To be honest, I’m glad to do it.”

“I am happy to hear that, Master. However, there are certain duties that Master Smaug has tasked Ori with, and it would be remiss of him to shirk them.”

“Well, I’m sure he must have _some_ free time,” said Bilbo. He was beginning to feel a little frustrated, but he tried for light-hearted. “And think how happy Mr. Smaug will be once Ori learns how to actually spell ‘remiss’!”

Thorin shook his head, but his tone remained blandly polite. “I am sure you know Master Smaug better than I, but nevertheless, I very much doubt that to be the case. Still, if you desire Ori to be taught, myself or Balin could -- ”

“What? No!” Bilbo couldn’t keep himself from interrupting, indignant. “It’s not about _me_ desiring it, _Ori_ genuinely wants to learn!”

“Yes, I understand that, Master, and that is why I -- ”

And Bilbo suddenly realized that he was being gently, cautiously, but _persistently_ maneuvered. Perhaps it would have taken him longer to figure out, if he didn’t spent the last five days at the office being just as sleekly commanded about. His hands slowly curled into fists.

“No, Thorin, I don’t think you do understand,” he ground out, his voice cool. “Ori wanted to be taught, so I will teach him. _Anyone_ who asks to be taught -- I’ll teach them. That’s all there is to it.” Suddenly, the image of Nori, skidding down the ladder to Bilbo’s feet, rose in his mind. Was that why Nori had not spoken to Bilbo? Had Thorin gone to Nori and also _persuaded_ him that he should behave differently? Had he talked to all the others too -- to the boys in the garden? What had Bilbo ever done to Thorin?! _Was he the one responsible for Bilbo’s isolation?!_ Bilbo’s voice was full of righteous anger as he continued: “So stop it! It doesn’t matter what Smaug wants, and it doesn’t matter what you want. It’s what Ori wants, and what I want. Everyone else can just… can just butt the hell out!”

Then, before he could say something he would regret, he slammed the door shut in Thorin’s face.

Breathing heavily, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool wood. He stayed there for a while, willing his breath to steady and calm, his anger to still. And as the anger disappeared, shame took its place. Now that he wasn’t face to face with Thorin, he could look past the man’s bland tone and irritating words. Throughout the whole argument, Thorin’s posture had said something altogether different from his mouth. Hunched shoulders, tense stance -- and he was the only one of the slaves who kept his head bowed the whole time he talked to Bilbo.

And Ori -- Bilbo had shut the door in _Thorin’s_ face, not on both of them. Thorin had been pushing Ori further and further behind him the whole time, putting himself between Bilbo and the poor lad just in case Bilbo snapped. Bilbo felt a lump in his throat.

The worst of it all was that he _had_ snapped.

He _had_ snapped, and he’d thrown his weight around, and what he thought was an argument was really a terrified Thorin and a self-righteous Bilbo. Bilbo groaned. He just… hated being manipulated. He got that every day at work, for around ten hours!

But those were all excuses. No, it was Bilbo who was at fault, and Bilbo would have to do something to fix it.

He’d show Thorin. He’d change Thorin’s mind, and everyone else’s mind. Next time, no matter what they threw at him, no matter how uncomfortable it made him, he wouldn't run. He knew now what he’d been doing wrong. It was not enough to do nothing after all, to peacefully cohabitate, to passively exist so that nothing _worse_ would happen. He didn’t want to prevent something worse, he wanted to make something better!

He was going to _help_ these people, the consequences be damned.

He’d just have to figure out how to get another chance...

\--*--*--

But again, it was taken out of his hands. The next evening, as Bilbo lay on his bed, pretending to read a book but really flipping through it and thinking of his next move, he was once more interrupted by a knock. This time Bilbo moved slower, and he opened the door a little hesitantly.

There stood Ori -- and again, he was not alone.

But it wasn’t Thorin next to him this time, though the slave’s head was similarly bowed. It was Fili.

“He wants to learn too, Master,” announced Ori somberly. “If that’s alright.”

The golden-haired youth shrank into himself even further at those words. But then he looked up at Bilbo suddenly, his mouth set, his eyes calm.

“If that’s alright,” Fili echoed.

Bilbo opened the door wider.


	4. bravery can be contagious

He hadn’t been called for a week. Seven long days.

Every single second of that time, he’d been on edge. Smaug had done this too, sometimes: not called him up for days, for weeks. For so long that Thorin had had to start reminding himself to brutally crush the hope that his mistakes had been forgotten. Not forgiven, of course, but not considered important enough to remember. That hope had never been fulfilled; in the end there were always the summons, and always the pain.

And this wasn’t the sort of mistake that could be forgotten anyway. He’d gotten careless, thinking he could steer the new master easier than the old. It was only right to pay for that mistake. And at least it would only be him paying -- he knew Ori wouldn’t go near Master Baggins after seeing the man’s temper, thank God.

Maybe he should ask Balin to teach Ori, Thorin pondered once again, on his way to said man’s tiny cupboard of an office. Ori would be eighteen in a little less than four years now. By law he’d be let free then, supposedly for a trial period of three years: the small concession the government gave to the idea that a child shouldn’t be responsible for their parents’ mistakes. Like most children born and raised in slavery though, he’d have almost no chance of making it through even a year without turning either to crime or to impossible loans. Almost no one even lasted all three years. And then back into the system he’d go, a ready-made slave on whom the government wouldn’t even need to waste money to train. It was a brutally efficient system, and it worked very well.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to give the boy at least a few months more in freedom, Thorin thought, as he knocked on the Balin’s door and then, as always, strode right in. If only it wasn’t -- 

Balin was standing next to his desk, fingers gripping the back of his chair as though he'd collapse otherwise.

Oh. Well then.

A wave of cold washed over Thorin, and he bit the inside of his cheek to get rid of his sudden light-headedness.

“He was here then?” Thorin whispered.

Balin nodded jerkily. His eyes were huge as he looked at Thorin. How had Master Baggins even found this place?! It was just a small nook, tucked away on one of the lower levels. Why did the master not just summon Thorin -- was he trying to demonstrate that no place in the house was private? They’d learned that lesson long ago! Why force it once more upon poor Balin?

But Balin, catching sight of Thorin’s stricken expression, quickly spoke:

“It’s not what you think Thorin! He came to talk about the budget!”

_What?_

“The _budget?!_ ” said Thorin, incredulous.

His old friend sunk into his chair, head buried in his hands. He let out a shaky laugh.

“He asked if we were _eating alright_. He wanted to take a look at our budget -- in particular, how much Smaug allows us to have so we don’t starve.” Balin waved his hands at the papers scattered on the desk before him.

He’d worked with numbers his whole life, and though balancing the books for a group of slaves was a massive downgrade from his previous job, he’d managed to make the most of it. For one, they’d all have starved or bled to death long ago without him. Thorin peered at the papers, all covered in Balin’s neat, tiny handwriting. Balin thrust one of them at him.

“He wasn’t happy, so he told me to add _this_ amount from his private account.”

Thorin looked down at the note and for a second forgot his anxiousness. _Not_ an accountant’s salary after all.

What was Master Baggins _thinking_? Thorin had blatantly crossed him, they’d heard no word from him for a week, then he somehow found Balin’s ‘office’ and now they were getting what amounted to a pay raise? There was absolutely no logical connection to the man’s actions, and it terrified Thorin. Smaug had at least made sense -- he was cruel, exacting, and sadistic, but he made sense. But this...

One look at Balin’s face told him the man was equally bewildered. That settled it. Thorin would have to go talk to the master himself, no matter what happened as a result.

\--*--*--

Thorin smiled grimly as he climbed up the stairs. He was good at convincing himself, he was bad at following through. His hands were shaking intermittently; the urge to flee was rising. At least Oin would now have more than enough money to buy all the bandages Thorin would need.

He must have stood at the top of the stairs for twenty minutes. But finally, he took a deep breath, and slowly, softly, walked to Master Baggins’ bedroom door.

As he raised his hand to knock, though, he suddenly heard voices coming from across the hall.

They came from the master’s office. Like the dead man walking that he was, Thorin crept closer to it, listening in. His breath caught in his throat. Master Baggins was skyping -- with Smaug.

He would recognize that soft, indulgent laugh everywhere.

“You could have left me better instructions,” Master Baggins was saying, rather crossly. “Nobody from the Loan Operations Department bothered listening to me for three days, until you _finally_ sent out that mass email. Couldn’t you have done that before you left?!”

“Of course I could have,” said Smaug, and even a continent away, his voice sent shivers down Thorin’s back. The trembling in his hands got worse; he curled them into fists. “But where would be the fun in that? Moreover, if you couldn’t handle those idiots for at least three days, I’d have chosen the wrong man for the job.”

In response, Master Baggins sniffed, and Smaug chuckled at it.

“Speaking of being the right man for the job, how has my household been treating you?”

Thorin froze.

There was a small pause, but Master Baggins went on as if he hadn’t hesitated: “They’ve been great! I barely see them of course -- I’m in LMB from eight to eight, basically, and I fall into bed by ten. But they seem alright. Very polite.”

“Oh? There is one in particular that you should keep an eye out for, of course: the one with the long dark hair, Thorin. He enjoys getting his way. And speaking of Thorin,” said Smaug, and Thorin could well imagine the cruel smile on his face. “Why don’t you get him out for me? He should be hiding right behind the door, eavesdropping as usual.”

His legs couldn’t hold him up.

He slid down the wall, crumpled in a heap, his breathing ragged. This was it. This was where the nice Master Baggins revealed his true self. And this was where Thorin revealed _his_ true self. His true, miserable self, made to crawl like a worm in front of the great masters, in front of the laughing Smaug and the soft-voiced Baggins, and pretend that he loved it because not pretending was worse.

A scrape of wood on wood, as Master Baggins pushed his chair back.

The buzzing in his ears was back, louder than it had ever been before. His neck felt hot, as if he was still in that heavy collar; he felt dizzy. He wouldn’t even be able to hear Master Baggins’ orders, Thorin realized dimly. He’d have to… he’d have to read his lips. Yes. Every step from desk to door was an eternity. He looked up.

Right into the master’s shocked, wide eyes.

Thorin forgot how to breathe.

But then the man silently pressed a finger to his lips, and walked back inside the room.

“Nothing doing, Mr. Smaug!” came the cheerful call from within. “For once, you were wrong. There was no one there at all.”

“Oh?” was the amused reply. “Well, well, well, Bilbo. Perhaps the old dog _can_ learn new tricks.”

Thorin didn’t stay to hear the rest. As soon as his legs could hold him, he fled.

\--*--*--

This time, going up the stairs was even harder. But he had to know -- why Master Baggins had lied for him, and what he owed in return.

Still, he hesitated in front of the door.

For far too long -- Master Baggins ended up flinging open the door on Thorin’s upraised fist.

The master drew back in surprise, and Thorin drew back too, curling slightly inwards as he did. His gaze shot to its customary position at the master’s feet, but not before he caught a brief look of the expression on Master Baggins’ face. Surprised, certainly -- but not angry. Rather, a little pleased.

The man was impossible to figure out.

“I was hoping you’d come!” said he. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, you know. But…” He gave an awkward chuckle. “I wasn’t sure my attempts would be welcomed.”

What?

Thorin had no power in this relationship. He’d go where he was bid, and he’d talk when he was bid. But… there seemed to be no lie in Master Baggins’ voice. Either he was playing a very long con indeed, or…

“Anyway, I just wanted to apologize to you.” Now Thorin _knew_ Master Baggins was lying. But bizarrely enough, the anger that should have followed this thought didn’t come. The situation was just too surreal. “I shouldn’t have yelled. It was fair of you to question my motives.” And just like that, Master Baggins changed his tune once again. It _was_ fair? Then what exactly would he have done to Ori if Thorin hadn’t…

But Master Baggins went on in a rush: “To be honest, I… I don’t know if it’s for Ori that I offered. Maybe it was for me. Literature, English -- it used to be my life, you know, when I was young. I suppose I just wanted to remember that a little.” He sighed deeply. “So, I’m sorry, Thorin. Truly. Please forgive me?”

The world went spinning, Thorin’s life was now madly, merrily insane.

He hadn’t received an apology for nearly twenty years. He and the others had had to stop at some point, for fear of going insane. Their actions weren’t their own -- every move was, ultimately, controlled by another. What was the point of apologizing for that?

And a master _never_ asked for forgiveness. It was a slave who confessed and did penance. How could Thorin offer absolution when neither his feelings nor his very being mattered? Master Baggins lived and breathed oxymorons. But he wasn’t… he wasn’t lying as he did. Maybe. 

And if it _was_ all an act -- as long as Thorin kept in mind that it probably _was_ all an act -- would it be so very bad to pretend along with it for as long as it lasted? To relax just slightly in the present, even if it could be ripped away at any moment? To go along and make believe that a master would ever sincerely apologize for anything?

Licking his dry lips, Thorin whispered, “Alright.”

He let his gaze flicker up and come to rest on Master Baggins’ face -- not meeting his eyes, but coming near it. He was rewarded by the sight of a brilliant smile.

\--*--*--

Maybe he should allow Ori to go learn with Master Baggins after all, if the man was still up for it. Perhaps it would convince his social worker to put in a good word for him with one of the charities that worked to rehabilitate slaves. Ori was only a very, very distant relative of the Durins -- perhaps if he presented himself as hard-working and meek enough, the taint of the main branch wouldn't spread to him. Maybe… If Thorin was there with him, unobtrusive, but present enough to make sure that any sparks of rage that flew again could be re-directed…

His eyes widened. There, sitting in the common room, heads bent together, were Fili and Ori. They were quietly arguing over some word in a book -- a book that was clearly Master Baggins’.

Fili too..? Had he..? Thorin sighed heavily.

At the sound of it, the two boys jumped up hastily. Ori shoved the book behind him, as though hoping Thorin would think his eyes had deceived him and forget all about it. Fili crossed his arms over his chest, but his brow was drawn together in worry.

They didn’t disobey him often -- they knew what the consequences could be if they did.

But this time… Just this time...

Their will to learn had been stronger than their fear of the master's anger, and of Thorin's wrath.

Dis had tried to teach Fili how to read, and Kili too, a little bit, in the past. She would be _happy_. She would be so very happy to see that her son had taken initiative to learn. 

Even if that learning brought nothing in the end. Even if the only thing it did was make him understand how little he would have, how little he could ever have.

Fili only had one more year left. He’d never learn enough to make it in the world. And there was no one on the outside to help him, no distant relative or old acquaintance. All his family was in this torment with him, all their family friends had abandoned them long ago, or were right here beside them. And no charity would be interested in helping along the grandson of one of those who had contributed so much to the last huge economic collapse. Fili would be back in the system within four months. No amount of learning would help with that. All it would do was bring home just how little of the world he’d ever be allowed to know.

But Dis would be happy.

When Dis saw Fili next, for possibly the last time in either of their lives, she’d be happy to see how much her son had learned.

Fili looked up at him, eyes bright with tentative hope.

“Well, budge on over and show me what the problem is, then,” growled Thorin, and sat himself down on the bench beside them.


	5. the almond and the apple and the sugar from the maple

Bilbo woke up to an alarm clock that always rang far too early, and an e-mail from Smaug telling him, _You should bring Thorin along; it’ll help things run smoother_. 

Bilbo frowned down at his phone. His boss was referring to a deal with Mirkwood Inc. -- run by the notorious Thranduil, who had, for as long as Bilbo had worked there, refused completely to do any business with LMB. From what little he could piece together, there was bad blood between the two chairmen. Their simmering, low-key distaste (hatred was for lessors) for each other had been constant even since before Bilbo started working at LMB, and he had absolutely no clue what had set it off. Thus, to be fair, he couldn’t imagine Thorin’s presence changing the upcoming meeting for the _worse_ ; you couldn’t get more ‘no’ than a ‘no’.

But Smaug seemed to actually believe Bilbo, taking Thorin along, would be able to clinch a deal.

Either that, or he thought it would prove hilarious in some way.

But why? The question plagued Bilbo as he brushed his teeth and put on his suit. Thorin seemed intelligent and had perhaps even shown himself as cunning, but what difference could a slave make in a clash between such titanic organisations?

He’d have to ask Thorin… But he couldn’t think of how to do that without being rude. The past few days, there had been a tentative peace between them, filled on Thorin’s side with polite deference and on Bilbo’s side with just politeness. He didn’t want to break it by bluntly asking what could possibly be so special about the slave.

To be honest though -- how much did he even know about Thorin? About Thorin and about the others? He had told himself he’d try to make things better, maybe it was time to find out who he was making them better _for_. It would be good to get to know his co-habitators a little!

So pondering, he felt more certain in his resolution when he managed to run into Thorin in the hallway on his way to work. That almost never happened -- Bilbo still spent most of his evenings and mornings completely alone, outside of tutoring Ori and Fili and the occasional random encounters like this one. Thorin nodded at him politely, and the corners of his lips turned up the slightest amount. His gaze rested somewhere around the area of Bilbo’s nose. Bilbo feel giddy at the sight of this progress. This had to be a sign!

“I was thinking, maybe we should all eat dinner together today?” he asked confidently.

Thorin’s smile vanished.

He blanched and his gaze immediately slid further down, moving closer to Bilbo's knees. What little expression was on his face before slid off. But he wasn’t hitting the floor, so it could have been worse, decided Bilbo, determined not to be brought down. He forged on, hastily.

“Not a gigantic feast or anything,” he said. “Just a normal meal, the sort Bombur makes anyway. Just… eating it together. Instead of Bofur or one of the others having to carry it all the way up to my room. If it’s alright. I’ll get home earlier for it, for seven thirty or so. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Then he became aware that he was babbling (so much for his ‘confidence’!) and shut up. It was difficult to talk to someone who looked blank so much of the time...

“I… We...” began Thorin, his voice full of an uncertain lilt. For the first time since Bilbo had met him, he was the one stumbling over his words. The role reversal didn't suit him. “All of us… eating at the same table?”

“Of course!” Bilbo said. Then he added, softly: “All fourteen of us, Thorin.”

The dark-haired slave blinked rapidly, but then he gave a jerky nod. “We will be ready by seven thirty, Master.”

In response, deliberately ignoring Thorin's grim, uncertain expression, Bilbo beamed. Then he noticed the clock on the wall and nearly had a heart attack. With a short nod of farewell, he ran off to another overwhelming day at the office.

\--*--*--

He came home exhausted, but on time. He’d had to physically push past one of the overly annoying, overly young assistants that the head of the Technology and Innovation Committee insisted on hiring. Even then, the determined young woman had only been appeased by Bilbo giving her his personal phone number, so she could call and inform him of any particularly impressive results in the middle of the night. A part of Bilbo felt bad: she had even crazier office hours than he did. The rest of him just felt a headache.

But it faded away, slightly, at the sight of Bofur at the far side of the entrance hall. The last time Bilbo had seen him, his hair had been a little wild and his clothes a little ragged. But now the hair was smoothed down slightly into two thick braids hanging down on either side of the man’s face, and his clothes looked plain but neat. It seemed the others were dressing up for dinner, but Bilbo was too hungry and tired to do anything other than straighten his tie. It would have to do.

At the very least, Bofur seemed not to mind; his eyes crinkled up at the sight of Bilbo’s futile attempts to make his rumpled appearance slightly less rumpled.

“Hullo, Bofur,” said Bilbo sheepishly.

“If you’ll follow me, Master,” said Bofur with a small bow. He spoke cheerfully enough that Bilbo almost didn’t notice that the slave again took a second too long to open his mouth. But notice it he did -- and his confidence in this whole endeavour faded slightly.

It faded even more as they entered the small hall where dinner was to be held.

A long table stood there, covered in a freshly-pressed white tablecloth and laden with delicious smelling food. The candles on it were lit. Next to it stood fourteen chairs -- with Bilbo’s seat apparently right at the head of the table, awkwardly overlooking the proceedings. With a slightly deeper bow, Bofur took his place; next to all the other chairs, the rest of the slaves were already standing. Each of them wore crisp, if well-worn clothes, and their hair and beards were neatly braided out of the way; Nori was the only one with his usual voluminous hairstyle, and even that looked sleeker somehow. They all stared at Bilbo solemnly -- well, a couple stared at him. Ori, somewhere near the foot of the table, shot him a small smile. The gazes of the rest were concentrated somewhere around Bilbo’s feet. He swallowed hard.

“Hello, everyone!” he said. “Thank you so much for, er, showing up -- and for being nice enough to wait for me to get off work.” He grinned, but no answering grins followed, so he gave up. A little less cheerfully, he walked to what was his apparently his assigned seat. On the right of him was Thorin, on the left was Balin. “Please, dig in!”

The others sat only after he sat, and they only began to eat after he had taken his first bite. The air was thick and heavy with awful, strained silence, as everyone chewed. Only Bilbo filled his plate up to the full, despite there definitely being enough food on the table to go around. This was going to be a long meal; Bilbo's confidence plummeted to the very bottom as the silence stretched. But still, he had to try.

“The chicken is delicious!” said Bilbo, smiling at Bombur. “What sauce did you use?”

Bombur, who in Ori’s descriptions had come across as a sweet, enthusiastic fellow, shot a look of pure terror at Thorin. The latter tensed minutely -- Bilbo only saw it because he was looking for it -- but he made no attempt to step in. On his own, Bombur floundered a little, but managed to mumble something about avocado salsa.

...And that sounded extremely intriguing, but Bilbo managed to restrain himself to a polite, _Thank you_.

As always, clarity came suddenly. Baby steps, he told himself. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea, but at least it was a start. Maybe he would find out nothing about the others, but at least he would begin to show them all that he wasn't a threat. His headache came back with a vengeance. With it, though, came an overall general feeling of achievement.

...Too bad that vague sentiment didn't alleviate the awkwardness of the present time.

It was unfortunate that Bifur, who Bilbo had talked to on the first day, now remained deadly quiet, even the clink of his fork and knife quieter against the plate than everyone else’s. It was also unfortunate that Nori seemed to be concentrating on attacking his potatoes with a silent fury. And it was extremely unfortunate that Kili, the teenager who was around the same age as Ori, and the mention of whom would make Fili’s face light up without fail, wore an expression as smooth and blank as a stone.

As for Fili himself, he appeared too busy to talk, his face contorted into a grimace of worry as he ladled more peas onto his brother’s plate and silently urged him to eat. Ori and Bofur were sitting at the far end of the table, too far away to start up a conversation. Balin’s face was lined with the same worry as Fili; he kept shooting glances at the grim, stern giant of a man sitting next to him -- Dwalin was his name, maybe? Everyone else, Bilbo knew even less.

That left the unreadable Thorin. He was like a still lake, serene and calm. But -- as Bilbo had found out, one wrong throw of a word would cause ripples of panic and fear, utterly breaking the poised stillness. The simple courteous relationship that had developed between them could not hold at this table, with Thorin so tense, with a conversation necessarily being more complex an exchange of simple greetings and phrases. Bilbo winced at the thought of being the one to say that wrong word, here, in front of all the others. Having to remain quiet throughout a meal would always be a million times better than even a tinge of the terrible, naked dread he had spied in Thorin's eyes during the conversation with Smaug.

The silence was oppressive, muffling even the taste of the food.

This had been a terrible idea.

But, suddenly, bizarrely --

“My nephew was telling me of one of the stories in your book of fairy tales, Master,” said Thorin. The slave cut into his chicken delicately, and didn’t look up from it as he spoke, but his voice was clear. “He retold the story of the Little Speckled Hen, and then mentioned that somebody had written a small note in pencil at the bottom of the page -- _compare ‘world egg’_. Neither he nor I could figure out what that meant. Would you perhaps explain further?”

Bilbo blinked dumbly at the downturned head, completely frazzled. Well, he had sure found out something about the mysterious slave after all. For one, Thorin knew what _cf._ stood for -- not only was he intelligent, he appeared to have received at least some education at some point. For another, Thorin was not in any way a still lake. He was a volcano, slumbering only to erupt and sweep away all in his path. Bilbo's heart sang at the thought.

The whole table held its breath -- including, Bilbo thought irrationally, Thorin, despite the dark-haired man continuing determinedly to eat his salad as though he hadn’t spoken.

Whatever reaction, whatever pain, they always waited for, Bilbo was equally always happy to sidestep their expectations.

“Well!” said he, his face glowing with pleasure. “Stop me if you get bored, but basically the idea goes like this…”

And gradually, as Bilbo meandered his way from the idea of the world egg in different mythologies, to a recitation of his favorite of Seamus Heaney’s poems, to a brief explanation of the Scottish Vowel Length Rule, the others at the table started up their own murmured, private conversations. Bilbo in full, enthusiastic lecture mode tended to have that effect on people. But Thorin continued giving Bilbo his full undivided attention the whole meal long, interrupting only to ask questions and put in a brief comment of his own opinion.

\--*--*--

And it wasn’t Thorin maneuvering him into anything either, Bilbo smiled to himself happily as he curled up in his far too large bed. Nobody doing the drudge work of manipulation would ask for the poem _Digging_ to be repeated thrice, while wearing such a look of concentration. (Concentration, along with something Bilbo couldn’t place, something that twisted Thorin’s features…)

It turned out to have been a great idea in the end. And maybe next time he could get Thorin to offer his own opinion more, and Balin to actually speak when he had raised an eyebrow at Bilbo’s interpretations, and…

He fell asleep happy.

\--*--*--

But he woke up to the sound of crashing objects and a loud yelp of pain.

Bilbo tore out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, if it wasn’t absolutely obvious, I get 90% of my knowledge about banks from google and wikipedia. I was wondering if there was anyone more knowledgeable who could econ-pick this? Just in the sense of ‘Could a bank do X with Y? What’s it called?’ If you're willing, comment here or send me a PM [on tumblr](http://sailorfish.tumblr.com/) pleeease! Otherwise, yous are gonna have to deal with complete vagueness and banks working ~*~differently~*~ in this universe... :V
> 
> Side note, [here's](http://www.rusartnet.com/russia/literature/folk-tale/the-little-speckled-hen) the fairy tale of the Little Speckled Hen. It's only four lines but it's just so mysterious! xD


	6. and stuff your mouth with cotton

A sudden yell startled Thorin from his books. He blinked blearily, puzzled at the sound, and wondering where it could have come from; his mind was not working properly after a long night poring over Balin’s meticulous figures. He should have been the only one awake, and the slave quarters were much too far away to hear anyone’s stray nightmares. But a louder scream followed the first. It cut through the fog of drowsiness like a lightning bolt.

It had only been a couple weeks since he had last heard a cry of pain.

Thorin tore out the door, running as fast as his feet could carry him towards the shouts. Up a flight of stairs, and then up another flight. And then along the long, long corridor -- why was it so long, his heart was ready to burst from the sudden exertion -- and then he could hear the crashes of thrown objects as well, and he sped up, head down, sprinting finally through the open door into last evening’s dining room and --

And he stopped for a brief moment, panting, taking in the scene.

He had just walked into his worst nightmare.

That long table they had eaten at just yesterday was now overturned, the chairs broken. The tools of a toolbox standing near the radiator were strewn haphazardly over the floor -- but at least none of them were covered in blood. There, at the far wall, stood Master Baggins, awkwardly cradling his left wrist with his other hand, his face pinched and pale. In front of him, eyes huge, stood Kili. Despite his obvious terror, and the hints of a bruise already forming on his cheek, the teen stood firm, clearly intent on protecting the master.

Or, if one looked at it another way, protecting Dwalin.

Dwalin, who was advancing towards the pair, eyes glazed with the rage of his madness. Thorin hadn’t seen him have a fit so bad in years. Slight tremors shook the giant man, and he looked as though he was ready to froth at the mouth. His face was contorted in a promise of murder.

Thorin didn’t hesitate any longer. He charged at his oldest friend, and aimed his attack low. With all his strength, he slammed into Dwalin’s side. The tackle was at exactly the right angle -- both of them went flying.

Dwalin hit the ground first and he hit the ground hard. His head knocked against the floor and he went still. On top of him lay Thorin, completely winded. Still, he struggled up, coughing and panting, one knee pressed down on Dwalin’s chest. Was he..? Dwalin’s bald head had gotten harder knocks before, but…

But then the man below him shifted, like a mountain rumbling into wakefulness. Thorin began to ease off him -- and Dwalin jerked up. His eyes snapped open, wide and still full a mindless fury.

Thorin sucker punched him.

His head knocked against the floor once more, and this time Dwalin stayed down. Thorin made sure of it, crouching next to his friend for several long seconds, ready to break his nose if need be. But no, the giant was out for good, ‘sleeping it off’ as it were.

And at the thought of sleep, all the adrenaline left Thorin, and he stood wearily. Every bone in his body screamed its complaints at him. This had been both easier and harder when he had been younger; harder to force down a young Dwalin of course, but at least his body hadn’t ached quite so bad afterwards…

Slowly, stretching a little, he turned around -- and found himself staring right into the face of his master. Master Baggins’ eyes were wide with fear and his face was contorted with pain. His wrist looked, at the very least, sprained.

Thorin gulped. The awfulness of the situation crashed back over him. Along with it came the adrenaline, of a different kind of dread now.

It was a less a graceful dive and more a tumble; Thorin fell to his knees with nearly as much force as he had tackled Dwalin. His head banged on the ground. Somewhere nearby, he could hear Kili doing the same thing, and oh God, he had to get Kili out of here somewhere, Kili and Dwalin both, and --

“ _What was that?!_ ” asked the master, his voice shrill.

“Dwalin, Dwalin just -- ” and Thorin couldn’t figure out how to make him understand. How could any free man understand? “He just gets… He’s just… Sometimes he gets these fits and…”

“ _Fits?_ ”

Thorin winced -- of course, he deserved the incredulity in that tone. A toddler’s tantrum was a ‘fit’; Dwalin’s flashbacks to when he had been forced to fight and kill for the pleasure of others were a little different. A little very different. The wave of tiredness was back, drowning him and making it hard to think, mixing cruelly with his terror. His head swam.

“They just -- he just -- he’s just a little ill, Master, and -- ”

“Then maybe he should see a professional!! My God, he’s a danger to everyone and himself like this, what the hell were you think -- ”

And Thorin continued digging the hole deeper.

“Master, you can’t hand him over to the training center, _please_ ,” said he, breaking the cardinal rules, interrupting the master. He couldn’t help the panic seeping into his voice, making it hard to think. He was babbling, he wasn’t making any sense, he couldn’t construct any proper defense, not after that long night, not for this worst of all crimes. “It’ll be his fifth time there, they’ll kill him, _please_ , Master!”

“What?!”

And wonder of wonders, the pain-laced tone in Master Baggins’ was replaced by alarm. Thorin could have cried from happiness. Reporting to Smaug that he would return to only twelve slaves was a powerful motivator.

\-- Except that didn’t sound like the master at all -- a master who didn’t smack anyone for asking questions, a master whose eyes lit up when he recited poetry. Maybe, maybe…

But there was no way in hell Thorin was taking a chance on a _maybe_. Not when Dwalin’s life was at stake. So he continued on, trying to nod his head as he talked, trying to make himself smaller and press himself further into the floor, trying to show his obeisance as hard as he could. He’d lick Master Baggins’ shoes if he had to.

“Yes, please -- p-punish him here, lock him up, starve him, beat him, but -- if you need someone send me!”

But the reply was immediate, and cross.

“What? I’m not sending you anywhere. You had nothing to do with it!”

Just like that, the world spiraled out of control once more. Thorin flinched. He was right not to have taken the chance on that _maybe_. There was only one other choice…

Thorin rose, climbed to his feet. He straightened up. When he stood tall, he positively _loomed_ over the master. He looked down his long nose at the man, looked straight into those bewildered eyes, and forced himself to ignore all the hard-learned instincts that were screaming at him to get back on the floor, to ignore them just like he was ignoring the aches in his bones. If he could just get Master Baggins angry enough at himself, maybe…

“You can’t send Kili,” he commanded cooly, and God did it feel wrong to take that tone with a free person. But a body never forgot arrogance; his voice trembled only slightly. He kept his eyes locked with the master, daring the other man to look away first.

He did. The master’s glance darted to Kili. The black-haired youth was still lying prostrate before him; Thorin had always hated how easily the boy, who had never known any other life, could slip into the role of the mindless slave. But it was the most useful survival mechanism any of them had -- already, the master’s eyes were softening. The fierceness was fading from his face, and only tiredness, along with a strain around his eyes from his hurt wrist, remained. Thorin’s head hurt from the whiplash of all these sudden changes. Maneuvering the master into getting angry enough to thirst for immediate blood instead of the far away punishment of the training center had definitely _not_ worked; he still wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

“Look,” said Master Baggins. He took in a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “We’re… we’re clearly misunderstanding each other. Again. Let’s just… How about you and I sit down, and Kili sits up, and we just quietly wait for Dwalin to wake up. While you tell me _what the hell just happened_.”

Thorin continued staring at him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I won’t... send anyone… anywhere,” added Master Baggins. Then he awkwardly sat down on the floor, and shot an apprehensive glance up at Thorin.

...Well it’s not like he would get a better ‘offer’ than that.

Plus, looking so far down at the master just felt _wrong_. So Thorin cautiously lowered himself to the ground in front of the master, a little in front of Kili and the still form of Dwalin. He copied the man’s position of loosely crossed legs, though his back remained ramrod straight; near him, he heard the rustle of Kili sitting up to kneel. He didn’t have to see his nephew to well imagine the completely blank on his face, so different from his usual grins down at the slave quarters. Thorin would never be able to copy that blankness quite as well -- no one born free could.

“So!” said the master loudly, interrupting the tense silence. “Could you _please_ tell me what that was all about? I heard Kili shouting in pain, and when I came down Dwalin looked ready to… to murder him! I tried to get between them, but all I got was a hurt wrist for the trouble.” He laughed a little self-deprecatingly. “And then poor Kili had two people to take care of. And thank you very much for that!”

Beside Thorin, Kili broke his stillness to draw in a sharp breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw him give a jerky nod.

The master went on, as though thanking a slave was a common occurrence. As though this wasn’t the first time in the young teen’s life that somebody outside his immediate family and friends had thanked him. “And then you burst in and, uh, took him down. But why..? What sort of, er, ‘fit’ is this?”

The floor in front of Master Baggins was very interesting, found out Thorin. The pattern of the marble stone was actually pretty fascinating -- and much easier to concentrate on than to figure out how to put into words the brutality that had happened to Dwalin.

But he didn’t have the luxury of a slow, well-thought out response.

“Dwalin used to be a… fighter,” said Thorin carefully. It was as good a word as any to describe something that had no description. “He… he was very good at it. _Very_ good.”

Master Baggins’ face went pale, but he nodded as though he understood.

As though he understood _anything_. As though he could understand Dwalin’s living nightmares. How he roared when he remembered how others had hurt him, and how he howled when he remembered how he had been forced to hurt them in return. It had been a _game_ for Smaug: he certainly hadn’t needed the money he had earned betting on Dwalin. Thorin at least had only been taken apart himself, he hadn’t been forced to do what had been done to him to others… _Thorin_ barely understood Dwalin’s pain, just as Dwalin had difficulty understanding his; it was slowly, unconsciously building a terrible wall between them where there had once been none. And here sat this terribly naive new master, _understanding_ suddenly blossoming on his face.

The sudden surge of resentment was strong -- it must have been brought on by his tiredness. Resenting a free man brought nothing. Resenting a free man who hadn’t (yet) sent Dwalin to his death didn’t just bring nothing, it was beyond idiotic. Thorin hoped it didn’t show on his face. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“And… well, sometimes he forgets he isn’t in those cages anymore -- ah, in that arena.”

He winced internally. Even most of their companions knew very little of how beast-like Dwalin’s life had been, back before. At his side, Kili flinched at the revelation -- enough that Thorin noticed, but probably not enough for Master Baggins to. He’d have to talk to his nephew later; _God_ was he tired…

If possible, the master’s face turned paler, tinged slightly with green.

“I… oh.”

He seemed completely at a loss for words.

Luckily he was saved from them -- there came a long groan from behind Thorin. Ignoring protocol (as though he hadn’t completely burned it to the ground!) Thorin whirled around to look Dwalin over from top to bottom. The giant seemed alright -- he was sitting up, rubbing his bald head, and wincing, but otherwise he didn’t seem particularly worse off for his multiple collisions with the floor. As always after his fits, he looked around slowly, bemusement written all over his face.

Thorin could see the exact moment when realization, if not exactly memories, dawned on Dwalin. He looked over Kili’s bruises, and Master Baggins’ hurt wrist. His eyebrows knitted together and he tensed, silent.

“Oh?” said Master Baggins, a note of hysteria in his voice. “Not going to kowtow and beg like the others?”

Dwalin looked at the master steadily.

“No point,” he said, his voice a hoarse rumble. “Why waste everyone’s time? Anyways,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Should I put on the handcuffs and get into the car, or are the executioners coming to pick me up?”

And at that, he let out a small huff of air. To Thorin, he sounded completely and utterly defeated.

The room fell silent, as Dwalin and Master Baggins stared at each other. The moment between the two of them, small master and gigantic slave, stretched. Thorin didn’t dare move, didn’t dare bring an end to the silence -- just in case he swayed the master to a cruel decision.

But then the master let out a small, mirthless chuckle. He sounded just as completely and utterly defeated as Dwalin.

“No,” said Master Baggins, getting to his feet slowly and painfully. “No, don’t bother with the handcuffs. The only person going anywhere today will be _me_. I’m going to go to the clinic and get something for my wrist. Then I’m going to call in sick to work for… for however long it takes for this to heal. Don’t worry though,” he said, turning towards the door. “I’m probably going to sleep ‘till tomorrow, at least. All of you might as well do the same.”

And with that, he trudged out the door, left arm still held awkwardly before him in his right.

As for the three slaves, they continued to sit there in stunned silence, the golden light of the new morning shining down on them through the windows. But gradually Dwalin began to shake, fine tremors from head to toes that he couldn’t stop, and his chattering teeth broke the silence.

Thorin and Kili took him to bed. And then they collapsed into their own.

\--*--*--

The sudden buzz of the doorbell startled Thorin from his thoughts. He looked up at Bombur, sitting opposite him at the common room table. Bombur’s face bore the same frown as Thorin’s. Visitors were never a good thing, and unexpected visitors were even worse.

A cold chill of fear washed over him. Surely it couldn’t be for Dwalin..? It had already been three days since that awful misadventure. He didn’t think he had misjudged Master Baggins, but any free man... Surely… surely…

Brushing past Dwalin, who had gone pale, and quickly, tightly squeezing his shoulder, Thorin ran to answer the front door. But as he found himself in the entryway, it was with a grim sort of hesitance, as though walking to the edge of a cliff, that Thorin walked the final few meters. Then he stood before it, swallowing hard. If it was for Dwalin… how would he… could he still somehow…

But then the doorbell ran again, an irritated sound. Thorin jumped, and automatically opened the door. He bowed low to whoever it was, but then, as no immediate barked command to fetch Slave #734458 followed, he let his gaze flicker up to the face of the stranger. And then it stayed there, transfixed.

Not even the fact that Thorin had been metaphorically living under a rock for the last twenty years could keep him from recognizing this person. In front of him stood one of the most famous activists of all time. Amongst other things, in his long life he had been arrested for radical anti-slavery advocacy four times (each in a different country), had been widely rumored to have worked behind-the-scenes to help overthrow three separate dictatorships, and had been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize twice. Despite his great fame, he was known to the world only by a codename.

“Good afternoon!” said Gandalf the Grey. “Is Bilbo Baggins in?”


	7. come and find me lying in the bed i made

Staring at the man sitting opposite him, Bilbo tried not to show that this surprise visit flustered him, that it upset him. But it _did_ fluster him, and it _did_ upset him, quite awfully. He hadn’t seen Gandalf for a little over a decade.

Not since the day after his parents’ funeral, in fact.

The old man didn’t seem to have aged very much. He sat up straight on the velvet green sofa that a very unnerved Bilbo had stutteringly invited him to, and his gleaming eyes were as sharp as ever. A walking stick leaned on the sofa next to him, but Bilbo honestly wouldn’t be able to say whether it was for help walking or to thwack a possible foe. Despite his shabby, overly comfortable clothes, he managed to look as at ease in one of Smaug’s best parlors as he had always looked in the snug and cozy Bag End, Bilbo’s childhood home. Were there perhaps more wrinkles of worry lining his brow? Bilbo honestly couldn’t tell.

The expression on his face was new though. Gandalf had never looked at Bilbo so sternly before. It made the much younger man feel like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar -- something Gandalf had never before made him feel even when he _was_ a child (sometimes caught with his hand in a cookie jar).

“So, Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf, breaking the heavy silence. “What have you to say for yourself?”

And although the old man had not even uttered a word in that direction, Bilbo could hear what he was really trying to say.

_What would your mother have said?_

How dare he! He almost bared his teeth at the man. If his mother had been alive to be able to say anything at all, he wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place. He would have have been teaching, researching, writing papers in some quiet little university. But his dreams had died on the same day as his parents. Bilbo, barely 24 and just finishing his Master’s, found himself scrambling to find a high-earning enough job to repay debts he hadn’t even known his family had. That his parents may have known how to cover or delay, but Bilbo really, really didn’t. All he knew was that no Doctoral stipend would come close.

And now here Gandalf was, ten years after that awful downward spiral and that bizarrely lucky job interview, his face drawn with disapproval. Bilbo narrowed his eyes right back and opened his mouth to speak. Gandalf could take that disapproval and stick it --

Luckily, a knock on the open door to the parlor interrupted Bilbo before he could start. In walked Bofur, carrying a tray laden with everything necessary for an afternoon tea. The man was smiling cheerfully, though he bowed very low. Small mercies: Bilbo had little doubt that if it had been Thorin who had brought in the tea and biscuits -- Thorin, with his permanently blank expression and his tendency to believe his temporary master would torture every one of the slaves if they even blinked wrong -- Gandalf would have dragged Bilbo out of the house by his ear.

And he would have been right to do so.

The thought worked like a pitcher of ice cold water poured over a drunken reveller. It cut through Bilbo’s fury and resentment immediately, leaving him feeling very sober indeed. Everything that Gandalf was implying with his comments and his looks was correct. Bilbo The Temporary Slaveowner needed Gandalf’s help, badly. And maybe, just _maybe_ , Gandalf would forget what bad terms they had parted on, and would help Bilbo out with this latest mess, so immeasurably more important than the scrapes Gandalf had helped him out of in the past.

So Bilbo swallowed his angry comments and turned instead to smile at Bofur.

“Thanks very much!” he said. He waved the man over, and was shamefully glad that the slave set up the teapot, cups, and food. Bilbo himself was absolutely no use with his still bandaged wrist; he gave up on helping as soon as it became clear he was more likely to clumsily knock the cups over than actually help.

Gandalf thanked Bofur as well, which caused the man to jump and forget all about protocol to stop and stare at the famous activist. The old man smiled serenely at Bofur, who bowed low once more and then darted out of the room.

As soon as he was out the door, Gandalf pointedly raised an eyebrow at Bilbo’s wrist.

Bilbo fidgeted. “There was… a little accident,” he said, quietly. “Not to worry, I was the only one hurt.”

Gandalf harrumphed loudly, but nonetheless he poured some hot tea for the both of them. A little of the tension in the room dissipated. But for a little while, they drank their tea in silence. Bilbo was trying to shove back anything that was left of his previous anger, until only dim embers remained. As always when he wished it, Gandalf’s thoughts remained impenetrable.

“Look here, Gandalf,” began Bilbo when he finally felt he had at least halfway composed himself. “Did you come here to scold me, or did you come to help these poor people?”

A little blunt perhaps, but it was to the point.

And maybe he had just imagined it, but he could have sworn there was a sharp intake of breath from just outside the room. Of course! There was no way Thorin wouldn’t be lurking right outside, eavesdropping, trying to puzzle out what Gandalf was here for, no doubt. (Well, to be fair, that made two of them.) Bilbo very carefully did not look in the direction of the door. If Thorin didn’t know Bilbo was aware of his presence… maybe he’d trust that Bilbo was telling the truth.

“I came here to do neither,” said Gandalf. “I wanted to see if Bilbo Baggins had completely taken leave of his senses.” He put his teacup down and met Bilbo’s eyes head-on. “I am very glad to see that you haven’t.”

How could this childhood figure still have such an effect on him? A shaky breath escaped Bilbo, and he slumped slightly in his chair. How could the load on his shoulders lessen so much just from one short sentence?

But Gandalf continued. “Unfortunately, _helping_ or _not helping_ is not something I can decide, Bilbo. However this turns out, it will be up to you.”

“I -- ” squeaked Bilbo.

“ _You_ signed the contract and _you_ agreed to the terms. And so, whether you want it or not, and more importantly, whether the thirteen persons you currently possess want it or not, their fate is in _your_ hands.”

“But I don’t want such responsibility!” cried Bilbo, panicked. This was -- this sounded too real. He’d only known Thorin and the others for a few weeks now! And he still didn’t really know them, not much more than their names! He wanted to help, yes, but a person’s fate, a person’s life… That was larger than helping a kid learn how to read, larger than eating dinner side-by-side, oh so terrifyingly _larger_. A sick feeling rose up in the pit of his stomach, the tea churning unpleasantly.

“Do you think _they_ want you to have such responsibility?” rumbled Gandalf. “But have it you do, and so it is, ultimately, up to you. You can consult with them, you _must_ consult with them. But their agency has been stolen from them. They cannot act as they will without _your_ permission and _your_ desires.”

“I, I…” stuttered Bilbo, his voice quiet. Not because he wanted to seem natural to Thorin’s ears, as he had originally planned. All such cunning thoughts had fled from his head and he stared at Gandalf, eyes wide. “I just want to help them…”

“And what does _helping_ entail, exactly? Do you wish for me to help them to freedom? I can smuggle all thirteen out, given enough time. But _you_ will pay the price for that -- whether by being forced to flee to parts unknown to escape Smaug’s wrath, or by being caught and forced to pay an ultimate price for your part in this crime. Do you rather wish me then to help you make their lives better _only for now_? For this one year that they are yours and not Smaug’s? But when he is returned and you wash your hands of their lives, this year will be only a warm memory to hold to at night, or a cruel jest remembered with scorn. Their backs will bear the lash once more, and your shoulders the crushing burden of guilt. So, Bilbo Baggins, how would you like me to help?”

Harsh shudders shook Bilbo’s frame. His breath was coming quickly, far too quickly, and he found he could not speak even if he had known what to say. The thought of the poor frightened slaves back under Smaug -- back in muzzles, back in chains, with no more books or questions allowed, and Thorin’s eyes dull with resignation -- made him gag. But running for his life, leaving everything he had worked so hard to rebuild, or worse, being caught? It would be considered a monetary crime, a theft, and he’d be enslaved for life for it. Would Gandalf be able to help him if Bilbo’s own master was someone like Smaug? The fear of having Thorin’s scars, Thorin’s blankness consumed him.

“Peace!” cried Gandalf, and the suddenness of it jolted Bilbo from his swirling despair. His voice softened. “You do not have to make the choice right now. But you _must_ be aware that the choice exists, and that the choice is yours alone.”

Bilbo nodded jerkily. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself enough to speak. But his breathing steadied, and his heart slowed its thumping. He took a sip of the tea. The sweet taste drowned the acid fear, warming his stomach.

“I don’t know what to do, Gandalf,” confessed Bilbo quietly. “I want to help, I really do. But I just… There’s so much… I’m not sure whether I can… Gandalf, I’m not my mother.”

It hurt to speak of her this way. It hurt to tell someone aloud what he had long privately admitted to himself: he could never be as brave as Belladonna Took in his own caring. When he was younger, he had forever chased after her back, marching off to fight for equality, to raise money for those who needed it most, to ally herself to every worthy cause. But as he got older he realized that he simply couldn’t burn with the same righteous anger as her, and he prefered his books to her fighting. Bilbo didn’t know who was more disappointed when he had ultimately decided to study English Language and Literature at university, her or him.

And he could not be his mother now either. She would have shot off immediately with her old partner in crime for these thirteen near strangers, not a second’s hesitation. Bilbo… Bilbo didn’t know if he could.

In return, the old man sighed. For once, he looked his age, tired and worn, as he spoke. “No, perhaps you are not. There was something in her that you lack. But! there is also something in _you_ that she could only hope for in her wildest dreams. You need only recognize it, my dear Bilbo, and bring it forth.”

And for the first time in more than a decade, the tense sternness faded from his face and he smiled affectionately at the much younger man. A greater warmth than tea flooded Bilbo now. He smiled back, hesitantly. He still didn’t know what to do, not at all. But his old family friend spoke, as he always did, with such total confidence... They finished their cups in silence.

Then Gandalf stood, and Bilbo jumped to his feet with him.

“I must be off,” said he. “Think about what I told you, and discuss it with those in your care as well. I will come back soon enough, when I am back in these parts again. You will have to tell me your decision then.”

Bilbo nodded glumly, accepting.

Before he could say anything else, the Gandalf picked up his walking stick and swept outside. Bilbo rushed after him, but Gandalf had not lost the ability to move quicker than expected. He stopped for a second half-way down the corridor -- where Thorin stood, no doubt pretending he was just walking by. The old man clapped the slave on the shoulder, ignoring a barely suppressed flinch, and leaned down slightly to murmur something in his ear.

Then he nodded at Thorin, and back at Bilbo, hesitantly hovering some metres away.

“I’ll see myself out,” said he, and was off.

Which left Thorin and Bilbo staring at each other awkwardly, Thorin’s eyes still wide from shock at whatever Gandalf had said to him. Bilbo smiled falteringly. In the back of his mind, any time a non-begging Thorin looked him somewhere near his eyes counted as a win. He tried to keep that thought in focus, bracing himself for whatever came next.

“I don’t want to leave the country,” blurted out Thorin. Bilbo startled at his outburst, and Thorin too flinched at his own suddenness. But he tried to carry on. “I have a sister. And she… And I...”

His words seemed to have deserted him, as suddenly as they had bubbled up.

So Bilbo nodded slowly, understandingly. No shameful wave of relief flooded him at this sudden escape from the threat of the collar. Instead, he was suddenly full of a determination he hadn't though himself capable of, and he spoke without hesitation.

“Alright, Thorin. Alright. We’ll think of something else.”


	8. they'll pluck the heart right out of your chest

On Friday, the day after the most bizarre day in his life, Thorin woke early. He replayed the conversation between the master and the revolutionary in his mind, again and again, searching for any clues that would make it clear that the master had been lying to Gandalf about his intentions and feelings. He couldn’t find anything. So then he replayed, again and again, the words one of the most famous revolutionaries of their time had whispered to him.

_You should start thinking about your own choice as well, Thorin Oakenshield. I will come to hear Bilbo’s decision, of course, but I would also very much like to hear yours._

It wasn't quite a promise.

But it was still far more of a promise than he'd gotten for a long time. And with that promise came a choice, a _choice_. Thorin let the word settle into him, wash over him. He tasted it on his tongue and he tried, very quietly, to say it out loud. He murmured the word into the small room, and let it fill the still air as gently as dawn light from the window.

He, Thorin, Slave #734454, had a _choice_.

It was a glorious thought, and he held on to its gloriousness for as long as he could, savouring it, until finally, the sheer terror of it overwhelmed him. He hadn't been offered a choice in near twenty years, how could he decide something so big, what if he decided wrong and screwed over the inhumanly kind Master Baggins alongside his already screwed friends and family, _and what about Dis_ , he couldn't do this -- he couldn't manage -- he couldn't -- he couldn’t --

He couldn't _breathe_.

Thorin shot up in bed, gasping and choking on the terribleness of it.

Then he got up to start the day.

\--*--*--

On Saturday, he ran into Master Baggins again, for the first time since his awkward confession in the hallway. He nodded jerkily at the man, trying to gauge whether he would be forced to answer questions about Dis, and whether he would be forced to admit that despite Master Baggins' determination, Thorin had absolutely no idea what they _could_ do. He looked down somewhere near the master's knees, wondering whether he could still lie with a straight face to this man. He'd have to at least try.

But for once, luck and compassion were on Thorin's side.

Master Baggins nodded at him with a large smile, and spoke as if he didn't remember the last time they met.

“Good morning,” he said. “I was just looking for you,” and before Thorin could even begin to tense, he hurried on. “I was wondering if you could help me out with some paperwork. I'm afraid it's a little overwhelming, doing everything with one hand.”

Oh.

Not what he had expected -- but better, a thousand times better. Thorin nodded cautiously at the master -- as if he could give any other answer!

But curiously enough, it wasn't only that. He didn't _want_ to give any other answer to Master Baggins.

Master Baggins -- Master Baggins wouldn't hurt him over trivialities. He was (pretty) sure of that now. Dwalin was still alive after all, and the only mark on him was from Thorin's own hand. (Stupidly, he couldn't stop the thought from stinging a little. What was _wrong_ with him?) And Gandalf the Grey wouldn't have talked to Master Baggins as he did if he hadn't been certain of the small man's character. And most importantly, when Thorin thought about it, when he wasn't completely blinded by fear, when somewhere in the back of his mind he constantly repeated that he now had some sort of _choice_ , he could admit that maybe, just maybe, Master Baggins had never really given him reason to think that he _would_ hurt Thorin. That maybe, unless Thorin did something despicable, screwing up utterly and completely, Master Baggins wouldn't even _think_ of hurting him.

Maybe.

Besides, he wanted to see a little of what had become of his erstwhile bank.

So he followed Master Baggins up the stairs and into the little office that he had so studiously avoided since the overheard Skype call. The room was far messier than Thorin had ever seen it. The large desk was almost sagging from the stacks upon stacks of papers, a couple calculators, and a full two dozen pens, markers, and highlighters strewn haphazardly upon it. A large amount of the clutter had ended up on the chair and the floor surrounding the desk as well. The only neat place Thorin could find was where Master Baggins' laptop stood on a small side table in the corner. It was showing what could only be emails from Smaug, and for a second, Thorin _flinched_.

Without conscious thought, he took a full step back, away from even this reminder of his true master. A shiver ran down his spine; shame flooded him. Smaug was half a world away, but still Thorin couldn't help cowering from him, couldn’t help wanting to kneel and beg and _run_. He cursed his treacherous legs, and he cursed his treacherous spine. He didn't dare look at Master Baggins.

And so he looked, instead, at the little table, and he saw that next to the laptop there stood a teapot. A teapot, and two equally large mugs. One had a silly picture of a rabbit wearing a hat on it.

“I thought we may be here awhile,” said Master Baggins, smiling sheepishly. As though he hadn't just seen Thorin almost run in fear from words on a page. As though he hadn't yet realized what a cowardly weakling Thorin was, as though he still believed Thorin was someone who could be of use in some way other than as a whipping boy.

So Thorin squared his shoulders, and picked up a pen.

\--*--*--

On Sunday, Thorin hummed along to himself quietly. A long ago song from his childhood, about a mountain far away. Or maybe nearby, maybe it was about the mountain at the outskirts of the city, at the foot of which the old Erebor Bank headquarters -- no, not Erebor Bank anymore, it was LMB now -- had been located. Did it really matter?

What did matter was helping Master Baggins. Yesterday had been good, had been better than good. It was busywork, mostly -- arranging who was to meet who when, which department head it would be better to sit with who at the next fundraiser, how to ensure the people who needed to could get in touch with Smaug as quickly as humanly possible. Anything more complicated than that would require Master Baggins to work at the office. Nevertheless, it was work that required some thinking and some tactical planning, and above all, something other than the slow breaking of his body.

If only he could still type! Thorin hadn't touched a computer in a very long time, and the last time he had he had only just started learning to touch type. Well, he grudgingly admitted to himself, even if he hadn't long forgotten the skill (typing was not like riding a bike, Thorin had found after five disastrous minutes of trying), he would not have been anywhere near as quick as people nowadays were anyway. Even with one hand still bandaged up, Master Baggins was much faster.

But Thorin would learn.

When Master Baggins had gone off to get more hot tea -- and how insane that was, the master serving the slave, but the man had been out the door before Thorin had even realised he was going -- Thorin had quickly scribbled down the keyboard's layout. He _would_ learn, he _would_.

The bandage was coming off tomorrow, so this afternoon was both the second and last time Master Baggins would actually require his help, but, well, you never knew, and four hands were better than two...

So thinking, Thorin damn near _strolled_ into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

And froze.

There, standing near a very cautious looking Bombur, was the master himself. He was putting something very large and cake-shaped into the oven. What was he _doing_ here? How had even found this place?!

“Er, Master?” Thorin said hesitantly. It did not do to startle or provoke anyone holding something scalding hot, as Thorin had well learned.

“Oh!” said Master Baggins, closing up the oven door and whirling around to beam up at Thorin. “Good day! I was just putting in a cake -- Fili's told me none of the youngsters had ever even tried a seed cake before. I supposed you all haven't had any cake in a very, very long time, and seed cake is actually one of my favorites! You all take such good care of me,” here he shot Bombur such a large smile, the cook couldn't help but return it, “I thought it might be nice to return the favour, even if only a little.”

At this little speech, Thorin just blinked.

For one thing, Master Baggins was wrong, of course.

Thorin had had many different sorts of cakes only two years ago, from seed cake to mooncake. One of Smaug's accomplices at the time had loved a very certain type of game. By her giggling requests, for three months straight Smaug had fed him cake and sweets, and had patted him gently on the head, and hadn't let him go anywhere without crawling. Thorin had thrown up constantly from the unaccustomed volume and richness of the food, and he had several small scars on his palms and knees from when he had been forced to continue crawling over broken glass. The taste of cake was not yet completely foreign to him.

But his dark memories couldn't hold for long, not when Master Baggins' smile was so infectious. So Thorin shook himself out of it, and pulled up a chair first for the master, and after the man sat he pulled up a chair also for himself. Bombur set to bustling around the kitchen.

“So,” said Master Baggins, a little awkwardly, breaking the silence. “Are there any pastries _you_ love?”

The question didn't require even a moment's thought. Immediately, Thorin blurted out, “Apfelstrudel.”

Master Baggins blinked at him. “Uh, you mean that layered pastry? Stuffed with, well, apple?”

It shouldn't have made his mouth water, not when it was described so... efficiently, but it did. Thorin nodded. Now _that_ he really hadn't had in a very long time. But it was easy to remember the taste -- not overly sweet, with whipped cream on top, and a dusting of cinnamon. On good nights, he dreamt of it still.

“I've heard of it,” said Master Baggins. “But I've never actually had any. Is it particularly different from apple pie?”

“Of course it is!” burst out Thorin, over loud -- and his passionate declaration was echoed too by Bombur. A tense second of silence followed, as Thorin fought himself to keep from dropping from his chair to the floor, and Bombur went absolutely still, like a mouse that hoped against hope that the predator might still overlook it.

But Master Baggins carried on lightly, innocently: “But the ingredients are almost the same, aren't they?”

He was getting very good at this pretending game, was their master. A little too good. The thought should have chilled Thorin. But, as his heartbeat gradually slowed down to normal, he couldn't find it in himself to worry overmuch. So he played along.

“Well, the ingredients are similar, Master, but so are the ingredients of a salad and a vegetable stew. It's what you make of them...”

“It's what you make of them,” chimed in Bombur. “That makes all the difference.”

Master Baggins snorted at their identical looks of dreamy delight. But he too seemed to absolutely adore food -- though less, of course, with the savage obsessiveness of the oft starving, and more with the full bellied interest of a true connoisseur. Still, they chatted lightly and well, until the cake finished baking, and Thorin and Master Baggins went upstairs to work.

\--*--*--

On Monday, Master Baggins was off to the doctor's, and then straight to the bank, and Thorin had... free time? He'd had free time before, of course. But it hadn't _really_ been free time. It had been time spent worrying and fretting and trying to figure out what Smaug would next find wrong with them all. What Thorin would have to do for Smaug to be satisfied and leave the others alone. But now he had free time, time he could spend doing something other than worrying.

He went immediately to Dwalin, as he should have long ago.

“Would you come sit with me?” he said.

Dwalin regarded him steadily. His nose was still a little purple from Thorin's fist. The two of them hadn't sat together for a long time -- just sat, silently, because they had once not even needed words to tell the other what was on their mind. Just sat, without planning and plotting and the ever-present guilt and shame. Just sat. Thorin didn't remember who had broken off contact first, who had built up the wall. It had been too many years.

“As long as it's somewhere without fine china,” grumbled his old friend finally. He grasped Thorin's shoulder, knocking their heads together lightly as they had when they were young.

And just like that, fine cracks appeared along the wall.

\--*--*--

On Tuesday, the front door slammed shut loudly and Thorin hurried to see what the commotion was about. Master Baggins had run back into the house a lot earlier than usual, around four o'clock. He was in a panic -- he'd forgotten a very important document in his office, and it absolutely had to be signed today. Thorin charged up the stairs after him, not even hesitating.

Master Baggins wouldn't take his anger and anxiety out on Thorin, he _wouldn't_. And if he did, it'd be a quick burst of pain due to stress, not a slow, well-planned, torture. Thorin could take on a lot more than a little stress, and four hands were better than two.

They found the document together, and Master Baggins didn't even do more than snap frustratedly at him once. And then he apologized, tersely but sincerely.

It was a good feeling.

So good, in fact, that when Master Baggins ran back to the bank, and Thorin drifted down to sit with his nephews in the garden, they actually stared at him.

“Uncle Thorin, were you replaced by a clone?” asked Kili, bluntly.

“Kili,” sighed Fili. “Whole people can't be cloned; science isn't that advanced yet. No, it's pretty obvious. He's clearly been replaced by a robot.”

“Why would a robot be programmed to smile?” pointed out Kili, and Thorin relaxed, letting their silly comments wash over him as his smile widened even more.

“Well, so that he can fit in with normal people, I suppose.”

“He's not doing a very good job of it, is he, if we noticed immediately!”

“To be fair, I don't think Uncle Thorin's 'normal people'. And anyway, maybe this is just a, a _prototype_.” Fili pronounced the word carefully, precisely.

“A proto-what?”

“Master Baggins was explaining it to me. Basically, you make a model to test something, and then you’ll make the other stuff if the prototype works well.”

“That makes even less sense then! Why make the test robot be Uncle Thorin? He's so abnormal, they'd have to start again from scratch for absolutely any other robot-clone.”

That did it.

With a loud battle cry, Thorin tackled Kili, ever so much lighter than he had tackled Dwalin just a week before. They tussled in the long grass, rolling over and over, until Thorin had his nephew pinned. Kili's shrieks of laughter filled the air, as Thorin tickled him mercilessly. But then he too was knocked over -- Fili had joined the battle with a fierce cry of his own, and it degenerated into a free-for-all. The sun shone brightly on the three.

\--*--*--

On Wednesday, as Thorin did what was beginning to be a customary round through Master Baggins’ wing, he heard raised voices from inside the office. He paused for a second, to decipher who Master Baggins was talking to, to decipher whether it was safe to come in or not. A smooth, polished chuckle met his ears. Smaug, languidly relayed his executive decisions. Master Baggins, complying with a chirp. There was a smile in his voice at his employer’s gentle teasings.

It was just an act. It was probably just an act. It was more likely to be just an act than his conversations with Gandalf was just an act, than these past few days were just an act.

Probably.

Yes.

Thorin hurried past without dallying.

\--*--*--

On Thursday, Thorin actually knocked on the door Master Baggins' private room. He straightened up as he did, clasping his hands behind his back, but he made sure to keep his gaze straight. Or near as straight as he could manage, anyway.

Master Baggins, whose socks were painfully fuzzy and brightly striped, opened his door with a cheerful, “What can I do for you, Thorin?”

For a second, Thorin let himself just bask in the warmth of the question, of the unexpected expectedness of it. Of course Master Baggins would answer the door so.

“Master Baggins,” he finally said, licking his lips. He spoke quickly, before he lost the nerve, but his voice trailed off to quietness anyway. “I was wondering if I could maybe, um... borrow a book from you?”

“Oh!” was the surprised reply. “Well, of course! Come in, come in, were you looking for something in particular? Have a look around!”

He ushered Thorin inside, and Thorin was inside Master Baggins' chambers for the first time since that dreadful first day. And now he knew Gandalf's words had truly driven him insane -- he felt no twinge of panic as he examined the room, not even at the memory of all those who had inhabited the room before the man grinning at him now.

Well, maybe it was because the bedroom looked so different than the overly imposing monstrosity that it had been just a little over a month ago. Thorin forgot himself and stared outright. The two bookcases from the next door office had been dragged into the room, and they were positively overflowing with books. Books also crowded on the small bedside table; on the desk, the flower vase was barely peeking through the stacks. And that too wasn't enough -- amazingly neat towers of books stood as straight as Thorin, and almost as tall as Kili, at various places on the floor. Why they had been placed in those particular spots Thorin couldn't even begin to imagine. Perhaps one book had just fallen from Master Baggins' hands here and there, and rather than pick them up, he had decided to add more and more to them, building these precarious structures.

The befuddlement must have shown on his face; Master Baggins chuckled sheepishly.

“Um, I know it doesn't look very organised,” he said. “But really, it is! If there's anything in particular you're looking for, I can find it for you. Uh, though if you're just browsing for some certain theme,” here, if possible, his expression turned even more self-conscious. “It... might be a little more difficult. It's sort of organised in a way that only really makes sense to me...”

Master Baggins' words trailed off, and he instead chewed his lower lip, his brow creased with anxiousness.

At, apparently, the thought that his slave might not find the book he was looking for.

The sheer worry on Master Baggins' face, combined with the near avalanche of books filling the room, multiplied by the ridiculousness of this whole situation, finally did it for Thorin.

He grinned.

He grinned and grinned, wide enough that his face hurt, as he used muscles that hadn't been used since, oh, since the day Kili had been born.

Of course, that just led to Master Baggins startling, and examining Thorin in what seemed to be actual alarm. He looked, if possible, even more worried than before. Which just meant that Thorin's grin grew even wider, until even by normal standards he would have looked like a fool. But he didn't stop.

“Actually, I _was_ looking for something particular,” he said cheerfully. “Would you happen to have any poetry by Rumi?”

Maybe he should have asked for books on politics, or economics, or something else to catch him up on the world he had missed in the last twenty years. But Rumi had been Dis' favorite when she was young. She had always stuck her nose up in the air and had claimed she understood it all, although any bits of it she'd read out had led Thorin to scratching his head, despite being five years her senior. He wanted to try again, he wanted to see if he'd changed. And he wanted to read it to Fili and Kili, and see if they were more like him or more like Dis.

Master Baggins' eyes lit up at the name, though he darted another halfway worried look at Thorin before nodding enthusiastically.

“Of course, of course!” he said. “Here, um, actually, would you mind holding this part of this stack, this is always a little awkward with one person...”

And so Thorin ended up holding up a stupidly heavy part of a book stack while Master Baggins quickly pulled out three slim books (“Sorry, not the full _Masnavi_ , just different translations of mainly the same popular poems; still it's fun to see which translation works better for which poem,” he explained all in one breath). He wondered how the slight man managed to get any of his own books out himself -- and the image he conjured up left him grinning stupidly again.

He left the guest rooms with a lighter heart than he ever had before.

\--*--*--

On Friday, when he ran into Master Baggins, he smiled at him easily.

But Master Baggins' answering smile was nervous, and he gave a little awkward cough before he spoke.

“I just wanted to say, sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I sort of forgot -- ” he began, rambling, as Thorin's spine slowly stiffened. “But anyways, um, Mr. Smaug told me that I was to take you along on Monday, for this deal we're supposed to try to seal. It's not a big, er, deal, in the non-literal sense -- in the literal sense it’s actually very big indeed. But don't worry, there's absolutely no chance the man will agree to it whether you're there or not. Still, Mr. Smaug absolutely insisted you have to come, and in the end, he is the boss, so I’m afraid we’ll -- ”

“Who is he?” Thorin's voice came as a croak, cutting through the master's torrent of meaningless placations. He felt dizzy.

“Um, Mr. Smaug always just calls him Thranduil...”

And just like that, everything from this last, wonderful week cracked to pieces.

There was that dreaded buzzing in his ears again, loud, loud and so unbearable the slave wanted to scream. Scream, and hope that he could still hear something other than the buzzing. It drowned out everything, swallowing him up whole and choking him on the noise. It was louder even than the first time he had heard the master laughing with Smaug, louder even that clear bright day in the courtroom, loud, loud, almost as loud as the day when Frerin had been ki --

He couldn't breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everybody! ;)


	9. everybody dresses in clothes so fine

He couldn’t help it. Bilbo shot Thorin yet another worried glance.

The man didn’t seem to have moved an inch since the last time Bilbo had glanced over. Not even, he was half-convinced, to breathe. To be honest, Bilbo should really be concentrating on the road and on his driving, but it was proving to be impossible.

In short, Thorin was scaring him.

After he had told the dark-haired man Smaug’s orders, Thorin had gone absolutely still -- as though he was repressing a panic attack. But rather than scream or break down, or say anything at all, he had just bowed low to Bilbo (and how Bilbo hated the return of the bowing!) and murmured his thanks. Then Thorin had stumbled past him, his eyes wild and haunted. And for the next two days, Bilbo hadn’t seen him at all. Fili had questioned him anxiously during their lesson -- Thorin had barely eaten and hadn’t talked at all since that disastrous meeting. But even with Bilbo’s brief explanation, Fili (and Ori too) couldn’t figure out why Thranduil’s name -- his _first_ name, even, as the businessman’s full name was Thranduil Greenleaf -- had set his uncle off, or what was going through Thorin’s mind.

The PA’s gaze kept darting to drop down to Thorin’s neck -- where there sat a heavy, metal collar.

Thorin had given it to him silently, offering his neck without protest. But it had been Dwalin who had handed him the handcuffs, then took them off Bilbo when he fumbled, and fastened Thorin’s hands behind his back himself.

Dwalin hadn’t been able to explain the problem with Thranduil to Bilbo either this weekend -- not, as Fili, out of ignorance, and not, as Thorin, out of terror. But he had turned away when Bilbo tried to press him, mouth pulling into a tight sneer but staying resolutely shut. (And a little voice in Bilbo had screamed in his ear, telling him to insist, telling him that out of all of them, surely at least Dwalin _owed_ him, when his arm still twinged, a little -- and he’d had to hurry away before he found himself listening to it.)

So -- the younger generation was as lost as Bilbo, the older generation knew and was unwilling to tell. At least he was in fine company then, Bilbo thought drily, and he tried to draw strength from it, as he hoped Thorin drew strength from Dwalin gently bumping their heads together before he had stepped away. It was impossible to tell for sure with that face, carved from marble, those eyes, staring straight ahead but not really seeing.

Bilbo pulled into the guest parking space none too gently, worrying at his lip. He unbuckled his seatbelt, then unbuckled Thorin’s. Thorin, who had for a split second stopped in front of the boot of the car, as though expecting to be shoved into it head first, before Bilbo had hastily pulled him into the front seat. For all Bilbo knew of course, it might have been more comfortable lying in the boot, handcuffed hands not digging viciously into his back. Somehow, though, he doubted it.

And now here they were, standing outside one of the tallest buildings Bilbo had ever seen, made almost completely of glass. Inside, he could see multitudes of sharply dressed employees hurrying about, and a few of them rushing in and out of the nearby front doors. Bilbo’s little green car looked as out of place here as it always did at LMB. Should he have taken a company car? He considered the question thoroughly as he checked for the millionth time that his briefcase still had everything he needed. It wouldn’t do to make a bad impression from before he even saw the mysterious, terror-inspiring Thranduil.

Except of course it was far too late to drive back to LMB and exchange cars, and there was little point in standing on the side-walk, Thorin a step behind him, fretting and looking at his car, at the front doors, at the building -- anywhere, in fact, but at the slave. As attempts to dawdle went, this was a very poor one.

Besides, far too quickly, his pointless fretting was interrupted by someone’s polite voice.

“Mr. Baggins, I presume?”

What could only be an intern hurried out the front doors towards them. She looked to be Fili’s age at the most. Her long hair was auburn, and pulled back severely. She held out her hand and, though still a little dazed, Bilbo shook it firmly.

“Welcome to Mirkwood, Mr. Baggins,” she said. “My name is Tauriel, and I’m here to help you get around, and get you whatever you need while you wait for Mr. Greenleaf.”

Bilbo wondered if this was supposed to be an insult: only an overeager youngster coming to greet them, as clearly they weren’t worthy of a more appropriate welcome. If it was, it failed miserably. He immediately took a liking to the young woman’s calm, level professionalism, for all that she had clearly gotten tired of waiting for Bilbo to finally get his butt through the door and come outside to take matters into her own hands. That professionalism failed for only a moment: her gaze flitted over to Thorin, and her lips twisted in compassion and horror. But then her face smoothed out, and she spoke with little inflection.

“Will your slave be joining us, or would you rather he wait outside?”

Wait outside? Was that possible? Bilbo’s heart leapt with joy. Smaug had only told Bilbo to make sure to bring Thorin along -- he hadn’t _technically_ specified that Thorin would have to be present in the actual meeting room. Surely the option of not having to see the person who’d inspired such dread in him would bring Thorin back to normal. Surely, surely…

But, although Thorin still did not seem to react, Bilbo could see that a single, fine tremor ran down his spine at Tauriel’s words.

And when he saw what the young intern was politely gesturing at, he understood why, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly. Next to the door, a row of small iron rings had been screwed into the building’s wall, at intervals of half a meter; long chains hung down from each one. They were all around the height of Bilbo’s hip -- a perfect position to attach the long chain to the collar. If given maximum length, a person could just about stand up comfortably, but if the chain was pulled tight, the slave would be forced to kneel awkwardly and wait _like a good boy_. They’d be completely helpless, at the whim of any person passing by. It was a sight seen next to most major buildings, where visitors rich enough to own slaves might need to go to, though in his whole life Bilbo had only actually seen it used less than a dozen times. 

Dogs were treated better.

Bilbo repressed the urge to vomit, and instead shook his head violently.

“No,” he said loudly. “Thorin will _not_ be waiting outside. He is also a representative of the Lonely Mountain Bank, and we’ll be going to see Mr. Greenleaf together.”

It was hard to say who was more relieved at his proclamation that the rings would be unnecessary -- him or the intern. Thorin continued to show no outward emotion, but he didn’t shake either, and Bilbo let himself make believe that was a good sign. Tauriel nodded at his words, and resolutely turned away from the awful sight, beckoning for them to follow her.

And so into the dragon’s den both Bilbo and Thorin went.

Tauriel walked quickly, it turned out, and Bilbo found himself almost trotting to keep up with her long paces. Thorin continued keeping a single step behind him, and Bilbo forced himself not to constantly twist his head around to check he was still following. Instead, he straightened his back and widened his stride. Everything in Mirkwood Inc. was a maze of modernity, sleek and smooth, from the very building itself to the men and women bustling around in elegant suits. Bilbo had rarely been in businesses like this without Smaug, in whose shadow one disappeared easily. But still -- for better or for worse he _was_ a representative of LMB, and he wouldn’t be intimidated by a few fancy ties.

And maybe Thorin would return, just a little, if Bilbo himself was less scared.

Finally, on some impossibly high floor, Tauriel led them inside a private meeting room. (Bilbo hoped very much that she’d come pick them up when it was time to go; there was absolutely no way he would be able to find the exit to this labyrinth.) The room itself contained little more than two white couches facing each other, each more sleek than the other, and a low glass table between them. Tauriel gestured that he choose one, and Bilbo sat down gingerly, half afraid he’d do irreparable damage just with that. It was surprisingly comfortable, and he put his briefcase down reluctantly; he unfortunately couldn’t exactly clutch it for comfort and still give off the solemn air necessary...

Thorin went to his knees next to the couch, his actions smooth and precise despite the restraints, and Bilbo bit his lip at the sight of it. But he couldn’t deny that Thorin looked more… appropriate there, than he would be perching awkwardly on the couch so that his bound hands didn’t dig into his back. At least one of them knew what he was doing, reflected Bilbo bitterly -- too bad it wasn’t him!

Tauriel nodded at them both, and left after Bilbo rejected her offer of tea.

And then it was just him and the slave again, waiting.

“Thorin..? Are you..?” said Bilbo hesitantly, once he was sure Tauriel was out of earshot.

But Thorin didn’t even twitch at being addressed, except perhaps to bow his head even deeper. Wherever he had gone, wherever he had hidden himself so as to not be hurt by the owner of this glass skyscraper, it was far too deep to be called back from now. And maybe -- maybe Bilbo shouldn’t force the issue. In some sick, perverse way, the slave looked more at ease with the situation than the bank employee did. It would be wrong to shake him out of his trance just for Bilbo’s sake.

Bilbo sighed deeply, his gaze drifting to stare out the floor-length window. When had he gotten so good at lying to himself? As if he would have any idea of what to do even if he _did_ believe ‘waking’ Thorin would be best! Either way, there was nothing left to do but to wait, and Bilbo settled in.

They did not wait long.

The door swung open suddenly, and in strode a tall, handsome man. He looked to be around Thorin’s age, but that was all this finely-dressed gentleman, with his neat long hair and elegant hands, had in common with the kneeling slave. His suit looked as if it cost more than Bilbo’s car, and the faint smile on his face was politely predatory. This could only be Thranduil Greenleaf, the man they had come to see. The man who had caused Thorin to shut down so completely.

“Ah, Mr. Baggins, good morning!” he said brightly. “And where is your associate? Tauriel said there were two of you, but my previous correspondence with Smaug had only mentioned your -- ”

And then he broke off, hand still outstretched for Bilbo to shake.

He had finally noticed Thorin, who hadn’t so much as twitched. Thranduil breathed in sharply, a quiet hiss in the heavy silence of the room. His gaze darted two, three times from Bilbo to Thorin and back again. His arm fell slowly back down to his side. Bilbo was frozen -- there was absolutely no way to tell what was going on in Thranduil’s head, what he was going to do next.

And then suddenly --

Thranduil burst out laughing.

He chortled long and hard, in what seemed to be genuine amusement, while Bilbo blinked silently in utter confusion and Thorin continued playing the role of a statue. His shoulders shook with mirth and his eyes sparkled at his own personal joke, not shared by anyone else in the room. But not once did Thranduil’s gaze leave Thorin’s face.

“So, a representative of the _Lonely Mountain Bank_ , are you now?” said the elegant man. “Given up on the name Erebor after all?”

What? _What?_

Bilbo completely forgot about the fake arrogance he had meant to put on in the presence of Smaug’s rival, and instead chewed vigorously on his lower lip. Thranduil spoke as if he knew Thorin, as if this was a continuation of some old jest -- though not necessarily a painless one. But why would the chairman of one of the most successful enterprises in the country know a slave? Had he sometimes visited Smaug’s house on business? Or had he… had he maybe known Thorin _before_?! But _how?_

If only Dwalin had been less stubborn, if only Fili had known more! If only Bilbo had been able to break the news softer somehow, in some way that didn’t cause Thorin to shut down so suddenly, so completely. Bilbo cursed himself harshly (and he cursed the -- what? _honorableness?_ of Dwalin too, just a little). But there was nothing to it now, and so he waited with baited breath as Thranduil’s smile grew cruel and the man leaned in closer to Thorin’s bowed head.

“What is it, Thorin Oakenshield?” he mocked. “No scathing reply for once? Have you finally outgrown the stones in my shoes, the scalding soup down my back? And I thought the day would never come!”

And still Thorin didn’t reply -- and Thranduil had clearly been expecting a reply, because at the continued silence from the slave he drew back and stood straight once more. A frown tugged at his lips now instead of the previous thrice-cursed smile, and his eyebrows slowly knitted together.

“Why does he not answer?” asked Thranduil abruptly, gaze settling fully on Bilbo’s face for the first time since he’d spied Thorin. “Did you command him to not speak?”

“What -- I -- no!” said Bilbo. He couldn’t help his hands from wringing together nervously, as he bent down a little to address Thorin. “You know that, right, Thorin? You can speak if you have something you want to say!”

A tense silence followed, as Thranduil looked expectantly at Thorin, as though already thinking of what to say in reply to Thorin’s caustic comeback -- had Thorin really once been the kind of man who would pour soup down people’s backs? Bilbo’s head spun at the very idea -- and Bilbo just looked at Thorin, trying to figure out just how far his mind had wandered while the flesh knelt. For a few breathless moments, he was sure that the answer would be _too far_.

But no -- Bilbo’s words must have finally broken the spell of unresponsiveness, and Thorin, Thorin --

Thorin bowed further, his movements graceful and practiced to perfection as they hadn’t been with Bilbo even at the start. Down, down he went, until his forehead touched the ground, his head close enough that a curtain of black hair spilled onto Thranduil’s expensive, well-polished shoes. His pose was an ugly echo of the first time Bilbo had first seen him, made even worse by the heavy metal collar and cruelly bound hands.

“Whatever offense I have previously caused,” he said, and his voice was so monotone, the words so rehearsed, that Bilbo’s heart clenched painfully. “I beg you, please allow me to apologize for them, however it would please you.”

And after that long, awful sentence, Thorin fell quiet and still.

But Thranduil instead jerked into motion, recoiling as if he had been physically struck. An ugly, violent mixture of disgust and pity contorted the man's handsome face -- but there was a glint of pure _terror_ in there too, lurking in the depths of his eyes. _Fear of what?_ flashed through Bilbo’s bewildered mind. But the strange emotion was gone before he could even begin to guess, as was the pity. Quick as lightning, rage flooded Thranduil and wiped away all else.

“So _this_ is what Smaug comes to?!” thundered he, sneering at the huddled form before him. “A pitiful threat! He thinks me this weak? My son will _never_ go the way Thrain Oakenshield's did.” His eyes snapped up to Bilbo's and Bilbo couldn't help but draw back. There was a hatred pooling there, dark and intense. He had only seen such a look before once: on Thorin. “If Smaug threatens my family like this again, Mr. Baggins, he will burn. He will _burn_. You make sure to tell him that.”

In the face of all that fury, Bilbo felt trapped. He couldn't do anything but nod -- once, sharply.

But it broke the awful tension.

“Good,” said Thranduil, suddenly cool where he had just burned fiery hot. His face smoothed out and his eyes flicked dispassionately to Thorin. “Anything else you wish to discuss will be done without the presence of this... man. Tauriel!” He barked, and Bilbo jumped.

Either the young intern was at the door eavesdropping, or she had great hearing. Whatever the case, she came into the room quickly, with a short nod at both Thranduil and Bilbo. Her face was as blank as her employer's, and she gave no notion of having heard Thranduil’s fit of rage.

“Please take Oakenshield outside,” ordered Thranduil.

But at this, Tauriel's emotionless mask cracked. Her eyes widened, darting to Thorin and then back to Thranduil's face.

“Sir..?” she said hesitantly.

Thranduil just rolled his eyes at her. “ _Outside this office_ will do. Take him to your cubicle for all I care.”

Tauriel nodded, and both their gazes shifted expectantly to Bilbo. He flinched at their attention, and turned to Thorin hesitantly. The man hadn't moved a millimetre since his graceful descent. Only a shallow rise and fall indicated that he was still breathing, that he hadn't turned to stone while Thranduil spoke.

“Thorin?” said Bilbo softly. “Could you... go with Tauriel? She'll, er, show you around for now.”

Wonder of wonders, Thorin heard his words, and obeyed the implicit order. He stood smoothly and silently, head still bowed. But he was no longer on the ground, at least, and for even that small kindness Bilbo found himself breathing a little easier. The slave went to stand before Tauriel, without a single glance more at either of the two men. A little uncertainly, she told Thorin to follow her, please, and the two left the room.

And then Bilbo was alone with Thranduil.

Alone with a person who may as well be speaking Nepali for how little Bilbo understood what he was saying. Thrain Oakenshield? _Thorin_ Oakenshield? He knew rationally that Thorin must have had a last name once -- but why would Thranduil know it?! The pieces didn’t connect in his mind, and even worse, _he couldn’t ask_. He was here on business, to strike a deal with a man with whom no deal could be struck.

But he had to try, and try quickly. He had to get Thorin out of here as soon as possible.

“Ah, so…” began Bilbo hesitantly.

“No.”

The refusal was abrupt and immediate, and thoroughly bewildering.

“Beg pardon?”

“No,” repeated Thranduil. “I will not sign any deal with Smaug. His little threat has brought nothing new to the table.”

“I -- what -- ” sputtered Bilbo. “You’re making no sense, Mr. Greenleaf! I haven’t even made our offer yet. And -- ” and he really shouldn’t continue, but he couldn’t help it; the angry words burst from his mouth before he could swallow them. “And Thorin is _not_ a threat! He might be a little… broken, perhaps, but he is neither dangerous nor violent! His -- ”

“His sheer _existence_ is a threat, Mr. Baggins,” interrupted Thranduil smoothly. “A cautionary tale for children, a living, breathing embodiment of the phrase _How the mighty have fallen_.”

It was a disgrace that the sneer on his face didn’t make his face any less handsome; Bilbo scowled back fiercely.

“That makes no sense!” he said. “This deal is between LMB and Mirkwood -- Thorin has nothing to do with it!”

A small pause, and the sneer on Thranduil’s face melted into actual, impossible to fake bewilderment. Well, that made two of them; Bilbo’s face mirrored the confusion he saw. But his back remained straight and his shoulders stiff. He wasn’t backing down -- the deal had been dead before the ink even dried in any case, and Bilbo wasn’t letting Thorin bear the blame.

“You…” said Thranduil slowly. “You honestly don’t know?”

“Well, I certainly don’t know what it is I’m supposed to know!” snapped back Bilbo crossly, finally thoroughly and completely fed up.

At that, Bilbo could have sworn Thranduil’s lips actually twitched upwards for a moment, but when he blinked it was gone again, and the man once more spoke calmly and with little inflection.

“On the contrary, Mr. Baggins, it in fact has very much to do with Thorin Oakenshield,” he said. “Tell me, do you know how Smaug acquired his bank?”

The question was completely out of left-field, and Bilbo’s eyebrows snapped together in surprise. What..? But Thranduil looked completely serious, and so he replied in kind, speaking slowly as he dug back into his memories for what little he knew. It had been far before his time at LMB of course, but anybody who read the papers at least once a year knew what had happened.

“If I recall, previously LMB was run by one of the large, old banking dynasties. Began with a ‘D’ maybe?”

“The Durins.”

“Yes, yes, the Durins. They thought they were too big to fail, that they could get away with the worst crimes of embezzlement, money laundering, fraud… A cornucopia of corruption, really. But Mr. Smaug, who was working there at the time, finally brought their crimes to light. The dynasty was brought down and all their money couldn’t save them,” Bilbo couldn’t deny a certain degree of satisfaction in his voice. He couldn’t say that Smaug was a ‘good person’ -- not after working for him for so long, not after seeing the slaves. But still, it was rare that real life turned out like in a children’s book: better for the hard-working than the merely born rich. Whatever else Smaug had done, at least he’d done that. “And so all the upper posts were free, Mr. Smaug was voted in by what remained of the board, and he completely changed LMB to what it is now today.”

“Indeed,” said Thranduil, face impassive at this brief summary. “Very... succinct. Well, whatever the case, the Durins’ real crime was possessing an Arkenstone.”

“An Arken..?”

“An ARKENSTONE -- an Automatic Retrieval… oh, I’ve never bothered to remember the rest,” Thranduil said, waving his arm languidly. “Oakenshield always did love his grandiose names. The ARKENSTONE was a data storage device of some kind, one of the earlier ones and completely unique. All information on the Durins’ dealings was stored in there. Smaug ‘bringing the crimes to light’, as you so gallantly put it, was really him getting his hands on the device somehow.” Here, Thranduil’s eyes darkened. “Something I assure you will _never_ happen to Mirkwood. Smaug would do well to remember that.”

“Yes, yes, alright -- ” Bilbo’s head spun a little. There had been no mention of an ARKENSTONE in the papers; he would never have forgotten such a complex, ridiculous acronym. What else had there been no mention of..? “But I still don’t see what this ARKENSTONE has to do with _Thorin_.”

“Do you not?” said Thranduil mildly. “Surely you must see what the ARKENSTONE has to do with Thorin Oakenshield, oldest living member of the Durin dynasty’s main family?”

“He -- the -- _what?_ ”

“Quite,” said Thranduil, as Bilbo’s head spun further, from merry-go-round to looping rollercoaster to just plain sticking one’s head in the washing machine. He felt, more than saw, Thranduil’s sharp gaze examining him, assessing him. For what? To see whether his bewilderment was genuine?

Oh, it _was_. 

Thorin, heir to one of the richest dynasties in Europe.

Thorin, a little child learning to count money by the billions.

Thorin, wearing only the finest silks, eating only the finest clam, studying with only the finest tutors --

Thorin, head bowed as he waited to be pushed inside the boot of a car like a breathing piece of junk.

How could those two images ever fit together? Thorin -- and the others too. It was easy enough to imagine a real childhood for Ori and Kili, one where they did not worry about grovelling and pleasing -- but it was hard to imagine Fili, what, astride a white pony like a little lord, reciting Latin and Greek, the perfect heir to Thorin? Bilbo couldn’t help but balk at it all -- was Thorin’s corruption, or that of Thorin’s kin, the reason for the debts and problems of so many -- for his parents’ own insurmountable debt? If not for this one thing, this ARKENSTONE, would he have gone begging for a job to _Thorin_? And would he have gotten it, or would Thorin’s eyes have flashed rage and would it have been Bilbo cowering somewhere, face smooth as stone? How could one little thing have changed so much? How could Thorin, standing tall and proud, Thranduil’s equal, have been reduced to --

Thorin, hyperventilating at the thought of talking to Smaug, a continent away.

Well.

Of course.

Yes.

He had known the slaves were terrified of Smaug, hated Smaug -- but that their fall from grace had not been a slow ambling descent from the slums, but a plummet from the heavens caused by the man they now served -- should it have made it worse? It did. It made it indescribably worse.

“I see I have given you much to think about,” Thranduil interrupted Bilbo’s dawning horror as he did all things: smoothly, elegantly. The businessman stood up and Bilbo copied him, long engraved politeness propelling him far more than conscious will. “Do pass on my greetings to Smaug -- and my message. Exactly to the word, if you please.”

_If Smaug threatens my family like this again, he will burn._

“Yes,” said Bilbo faintly. “Yes, I will.”

“Thank you,” said Thranduil, shaking Bilbo’s hand, as though this was a normal business encounter, as though he wasn’t sending Bilbo off with a request to threaten his employer.

Then the tall man opened the door, next to which, of course, the ever professional Tauriel was already standing with Thorin, and Bilbo grabbed his not-even-once-opened briefcase and hastened after her, away from Thranduil’s frosted smile and this glass maze of secrets.

And quite suddenly, quite bewilderingly, just like that, he was out in the fresh air, next to his little green car and alone with Thorin.

Thorin, who still stood there, petrified and eyes downcast, no different at all from before Bilbo had known he had once been part of something so powerful, and something so corrupt. Thorin, who was still ready to go inside the boot if the much smaller man before him uttered just half a word. The sudden shiver that hit him hard was not caused by the cool breeze, so uncommon in June.

And Bilbo was tired of it, tired of it all. He didn’t want to think of ‘would have’s and ‘would be’s, and he didn’t want to see Thorin like this, not when he could picture the Thorin of before, clear as glass. He most definitely didn’t want to see Thorin sitting with arms pulled back, hands grinding into his lower back, the whole long ride home. Damn Thranduil, and damn whatever propriety they were supposed to follow! Let these dignified, aloof employees laugh secretly behind their tranquil faces. Giving Thorin a little more comfort was at least something Bilbo could solve.

He hastened over, fumbled for his little golden ring, and on his second try, managed to find the key to open Thorin’s handcuffs. Back straight, the slave’s hands didn’t move a millimetre from his position -- but when they got into the car, he buckled his seatbelt himself and kept his hands in his lap as Bilbo started up the car.

The heady relief left Bilbo reeling like a punch to the gut.

He started driving home -- and he wanted to drive much further suddenly -- to get everyone first, and then just drive, drive impossibly far away, drive to the ocean and take a boat maybe -- he’d read in some magazine once that Cuba continued to laugh at extradition treaties -- they could live on his money before Smaug closed his accounts and then he’d work, teach English as a second language maybe --

But pea green was a conspicuous color for a refugee’s car, and they’d never fit all thirteen of them in here -- and Thorin had a sister. A sister, who had fallen just as hard as Thorin, who was not in their own private prison with the rest of them. A sister they couldn’t just leave.

“I have no idea what to do, Thorin.”

It burst out of Bilbo, his voice hitching, catching, and finally breaking.

“I have to think of something, I know, and I will, I will, I promise -- but Thorin, _I don’t know how_. I’ve never had to care for anyone other than me before, I -- I don’t even know how to cook a meal for more than one person, let alone -- And you, you’re, I don't even know, a former millionaire? Billionaire? How many silver spoons were you and your sister born with, Thorin? I just -- you, you, you’re, you’re -- ”

“I’m here,” said Thorin, his voice hoarse.

Bilbo’s head whipped round, the road completely forgotten, and there, finally, finally, _finally_ , he looked into Thorin’s eyes and found Thorin looking back. The man’s lips curled into a small, crooked smile and Bilbo could do nothing but grin back in sheer, dizzying relief. And then Thorin’s eyes fluttered shut and he slumped forward in the deep, healing sleep of the bone-weary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand thank you to LionsChild, who asked whether there'd be an actual collar. There wouldn't be one without your comment! :P


	10. but you keep on walking and you don't look back

The next time Thorin woke up, it was in his bedroom. The sweet morning light streamed in through the bay window; they’d had to move the bed so that the sun’s rays didn’t hit him in the face like a personal alarm clock straight out of hell. He stretched lazily, not quite yet ready to leave the comfort of his bed.

Of his far too soft bed.

Of his far too soft bed, in a bedroom that was _not his_.

He rolled out from under the covers and sprang to his feet in one smooth motion. His heart hammered in his chest as if demanding to jump straight out of him. He glanced around wildly. Why was he even on this floor? The Nursery Wing, as he and his siblings had mockingly referred to it, hadn’t been used by Smaug for around a decade now. This room hadn’t been Thorin’s for nearly two.

And yet, here it was, untouched by the passing of the years except for those bits that had been grabbed and roughly shaken by them. His dark wooden bed and matching bookcase stood exactly where he and Frerin had pushed them to, panting and grumbling. The well-pressed sheets he had slept on (kept perfect, no doubt, by Dori, just in case this room was ever instantly required by some mad whim of the master) might have even been used by Thorin once upon a time. But the bookcase was stark and bare, and the bright seashells Dis had collected with a slightly bemused Dwalin no longer lay gleaming on the top-most shelf. Long gone into the trash, along with all his books and the pictures that should have been hanging on these walls -- unless Smaug had decided to store it all somewhere, so as to bring it out and laugh at Thorin’s attachment one day when he was feeling bored and cruel.

Thorin didn’t know which one would be worse. He stood in what had once been his home, his fortress against the entire world, against the weight of family expectations and against noisy little siblings. But those old troubles were void and gone and the rooms’ flimsy walls could never keep out the new; the fortress and its comforts were broken. It left him with goosebumps, as if someone was sprinting back and forth over his grave.

_Why was he here?_

“It’s an interesting question.”

He whirled around.

It was Nori, slouching against the doorframe with a posture so bad Smaug would have ordered him beaten on sight. He was scrutinizing Thorin carefully, naked fascination shining in his eyes. Had Thorin asked the question out loud, or had Nori just guessed at his thoughts? Between all the slaves, either was possible. They had been stuck together long enough.

“The simplest answer,” said Nori. “Is that you walked here. D’you remember?”

No.

Yes.

Thorin remembered Master Baggins telling him that they were to go to Greenleaf, and he remembered -- he remembered little after that, as if looking through fogged up glass. But he remembered being polite to Greenleaf -- he _had_ been polite, he had done what was necessary, he’d fallen down on his belly and begged, so why had Greenleaf turned to rage instead of continuing with his laughter? Had he messed -- but his gut had no chance to twist up completely. Nori had never bothered hiding anger from him. There was none on his face now; Thorin could breathe easy.

And after that?

After that, the master had confessed to him. Not apologized to him, not shot him looks of pity and regret. Confessed to him a little like he had confessed to Gandalf, a little like Thorin was a person, and a little like -- a little like Nori once had. A little like Nori had, age seventeen and trembling, old enough to remember something of the world outside this house, old enough to understand he’d be back again all too soon, but still young enough to be utterly bewildered by the conditional ‘freedom’ the state offered. Thorin hadn’t known what to say to Nori then, just as he hadn’t known what to say to the master. He didn’t even know what to say to Nori now, Nori who was staring at him with curious eyes.

 _A little like he was a person_ \-- small wonder he had stumbled in his confused exhaustion from the car to this room, the last place he had slept when he had counted as such! But Thorin had little desire to voice this answer, breathe air and life into it. He countered the question with his own.

“Why are _you_ here?”

The younger man shrugged noncommittally.

“To see what the great Thorin Oakenshield of the main branch looks like when he crawls out of bed, I suppose,” he said, sketching a bow that was just an iota too smooth to be complete and utter mockery. Thorin’s lips twisted into an uncomfortable grimace at the sight of it.

“And?”

Nori sighed with gusto.

“He has the same bed hair as Our-Fearless-Leader-Good-Ol’-Thorin. Come on, it’s time for breakfast.”

\--*--*--

Breakfast consisted mainly of everyone staring fixedly at Thorin and not even bothering to pretend otherwise; they looked away only for a few moments, to pound Ori on the back as he coughed at some speck going down the wrong pipe. Meanwhile, Thorin concentrated on busily shoveling food into his mouth. He couldn’t remember the taste of any meal he had eaten since Friday and even he knew that wasn’t exactly healthy. 

Eating gave him time to think a little, to clear his thoughts. It didn’t take long: his thoughts were clearer nowadays, less clouded with absolute terror. So after breakfast, Thorin called together… well, it was hard to call it anything other than a war council, although he’d be hard-pressed to say who exactly they were at war with at the moment. (Even the idea of whispering _with Smaug_ sent a cold shiver down Thorin’s back, and he banished the thought.)

The ‘council’ consisted of all of them who had become slaves as legal adults: Balin and Dwalin, Bifur, Dori, Oin and Gloin, though the latter had turned 18 just two months before the trial. Nori and Fili had had to be dragged away from the common room by Bofur, wearing identical mutinous scowls despite the more-or-less decade age gap between them.

“Well,” said Thorin, awkwardly.

The last time they had all sat together like this, there had been far less white in Balin’s hair, and none at all in Bifur’s. The last time they had done this with any sort of regularity… Dis had sat next to Dwalin then, back straight as a board and eyes razor sharp. And the others too:

Aile, hand twined with Gloin’s as though daring Smaug himself to tear them apart.

Edda, who hadn’t been able to stop shivering even in the brightest summer days.

Perpetually tired Thyri, who was neither related nor family friend, trapped for life because of a job she’d held for ten months.

Inge, braiding and rebraiding the tips of Ketilrid’s long black hair as she listened, her hands never stilling; Ketilrid’s little girl had been young enough to sleep peacefully in her mother’s arms as the adults talked.

And Gyda Ri, who had named her first two children, as far as Thorin could tell, out of a perverse sense of humor -- and her third child out of a desperate hope to pass on at least a tiny bit of legacy to someone who was likely to never have a family name at all.

It had been Liv and Siv who’d had to be dragged away by Bofur then: they’d be eighteen in a year and a half, they had pleaded, they could help, they didn’t want to stay with the children (next to them, fifteen year old Nori and fourteen year old Heidrun had looked ready to start a brawl)... Thorin had shut the door without even a flicker of hesitation.

He had to shut the door on those memories now. They weren’t here; he couldn’t physically throw himself between them and danger as he could with the others. It was hard enough not to think constantly of Dis, for fear not to overwhelm him totally at the thought of what any wrong word would mean for her. If the thought that _it wasn’t just Dis_ was ever allowed to linger, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

It was hard though -- how could it not be, when Balin and the others automatically left their usual places empty over a decade later?

“Well,” tried Thorin again.

Dwalin and Bifur stared at him impassively; their silence could outlast the rise and fall of moderately sized empires. (They’d feared the worst when Bifur had come back one day, bleeding from a head wound and stumbling, eyes glazed, not replying to their anxious questions or his cousins’ pleas. Oin said he’d pulled through by sheer stubbornness, and at least it was something closer to stubbornness than head injuries that stopped him from talking now.) The others were not quite as steady. Balin and Gloin kept shooting each other looks that varied between worried fretting and _I told you so_. Oin looked ready to reach for his stethoscope -- a new one, that wasn’t held together by tape, that they’d been able to order due to Master Baggins’ generosity. Thorin honestly wasn’t sure if the doctor genuinely believed he had breathing difficulties, or if he just wanted to play with his new toy.

As for Dori... Despite them entering the early days of summer, Dori carefully pressed a large, hot mug of tea into Thorin’s hands.

Thorin breathed in deep, taking in the slightly too sweet smell. Ori always asked for honey if they could spare some, and Dori had clearly been too worried to concentrate on not preparing the tea on autopilot. After all, Ori could have tea with honey every day now -- again, due to a certain Master Baggins. Right. Right.

“Baggins wants to help us.”

A little blunt maybe. Oin and Gloin both let out a loud squawk, the brothers sounding so alike it was hard to tell which came from which, and Dori almost upended his own tea. Balin’s face was a whirlwind of emotions: confusion, suspicion, maybe even a tiny glimmer of hope. Even Bifur cocked his head slightly, considering. Only Dwalin hadn’t so much as twitched. His eyes didn’t leave Thorin’s face.

“How do you know?” Balin asked quietly.

It was all Thorin could do not to shrug helplessly -- or to follow his other instinct, to let his eyes harden and his face smoothen to blankness as it did most days, hiding his thoughts from others’ gazes. They deserved honesty, at least. 

“He told me.”

Now it was Gloin’s turn to look skeptical.

“What does he want in return then?”

“And why should we believe him?” added Oin.

What did Master Baggins want in return..? Thorin almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. Did it matter what he wanted? Thorin would pay whatever price requested of him, and more besides. Oin’s question though, that was more to the point. He frowned, trying to piece together the answer for himself as much as for the others.

“He told it to me,” Thorin said slowly. “And he told it to me with the same desperation that he told it to Gandalf the Grey.”

That resulted in another round of gasps and exclamations; Dwalin narrowed his eyes. Right, Thorin hadn’t… really told them about the complicated encounter he had eavesdropped on. He hadn’t known what to say, how to explain -- hadn’t known how to not give them all false hope about something that had sounded too unreal to believe. Even he’d had difficulty believing it, and he’d heard it first hand, as it were. But now Thorin had confirmation, from the master’s lips to his ears directly. So he repeated the whole encounter to them, as close to word-for-word as he could manage (he’d replayed it enough in his own mind that it wasn’t much of a problem).

They all stayed quiet as he spoke. When he finished, Oin asked him to repeat Gandalf’s words again, and then once more.

_I will come to hear Bilbo’s decision, of course, but I would also very much like to hear yours._

A hushed silence fell over them all then as they considered his words. Thorin found he couldn’t look up from the table. (Its wooden surface was covered in scuffs and stains, and if he thought long enough he was sure he could place a story to each one. Here, Edda’s blood had dripped from her arm, red and thick; there, Dwalin’s fury had been wild enough to leave deep scratches in the wood. Every story was more violent than the last.) Then, Oin, Gloin, and Dori all spoke at once, confused, eager, excited.

“Would Gandalf go against Master Baggins then?”

“For _us_?”

“What about Master Baggins, how far is _he_ willing to go?”

“What does he mean, he’s not like his mother? Does she work with Gandalf? Could she help?”

“What about Aile and Gimli? And Dis and the others?”

“If Master Baggins is willing to look the other way, we could grab them and…”

“Don’t be stupid, he’d be arrested and enslaved. He’d never risk that, no matter how _nice_ he is.”

“If we took him along…”

“We’re far too recognizable as it is! You don’t think Smaug would miss him at the bank..?!”

“Well, we have a year until he’s back, it’s something to consider…”

Balin’s voice cut through the surprised babble like butter.

“Why didn’t you tell us from the start, Thorin?” he said, eyes soft. “Why didn’t you want us to know? You know if we’d all had the whole picture, we could have helped…”

And Thorin did know, he honestly did. But it was _hard_. He swallowed, and then swallowed again. His tea was cooling, and he couldn’t bring himself to drink it. Conferring and plotting with the others -- it had been second nature once, just as shutting himself off was now. But he’d volunteered for the role of protector, the role of whipping boy; he’d stepped forward willingly. He’d considered it the final, desperate decision he would be allowed to make in his life. And as the man who’d once been heir, as the man who’d gotten them all into this mess in the first place, he’d been _glad_ to make it.

If he confided in the others, they might undermine this role and throw themselves forward instead. It was easy enough to do when one knew what was planned. Dis had taught him that -- no, he had taught Dis, Dis and himself. He couldn’t allow it, couldn’t let them even think to try. Especially if they had hope, even if the hope might prove false…

A sudden, warm hand on his shoulder, and Thorin flinched violently. His gaze skittered up, up to rest upon Dwalin’s face. The difficult years hadn’t made his oldest friend any better at hiding his emotions; Dwalin looked stricken. But he didn’t take his hand off Thorin’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to answer us,” he said gruffly. “But either way, before we start with all that, there’s one more person who also needs the whole picture.”

And wasn’t that Dwalin through and through, light as spring rain about some wounds and pressing insistently on others. Thorin nodded his contrite agreement, and hid his small smile in his too sweet tea.

\--*--*--

Master Baggins was working from his home office today, but when Thorin rapped softly on the door, it was flung open almost immediately. Master Baggins’ harried expression melted away at the sight of the slave, and he bit at his lip as he looked Thorin up and down worriedly. Yes, this really was the right decision.

Still, he had to clear his throat twice before he could force the words out.

“I… I don’t think you can _think of something_ if you don’t have all the facts. I’d like to give them to you. About -- about my sister, and the others.”

There was a moment of silence from Master Baggins. The old, dark swirl of malicious thoughts and second thoughts (and third thoughts) overwhelmed him for a second: What if he’d misunderstood everything and all he’d get was a sneer and some derisive laughter? But it faded as soon as it came, leaving only faint shadows. A refusal was likely, but it would be about Master Baggins being busy, not about him being cruel. Yes. Maybe he should come back later though, when the PA was in a more receptive mood and more recovered from work. Maybe…

But Master Baggins was already pulling the door open further, and Thorin stepped into the cozy office, back straight.


	11. she’s out of sight and he’s out of his mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ah, hello there! Long time no see! So um basically I'm sure you're tired of hearing all my myriad apologies every time I don't update for a while. Nevertheless: sorry!!!! If anyone is curious, what happened was a combination of [this](http://sailorfish.tumblr.com/post/127580252494/sooo-heres-a-small-explanation-of-why-i-havent) (warning: a bit of a downer), combined with this being my final year of undergrad (and tbh the last thing I wanted to do after writing stuff for my dissertation was to write some more). But after next week I basically have two months of limbo, so I'm hoping to update more. So, a little bit rusty, but tada!
> 
> **Content warning** : This chapter is light on comfort, heavy on hurt (although all in flashback/dialogue). Check the end notes for a more precise CW; if you would rather skip this chapter, comment here or send me an ask on [my tumblr](http://sailorfish.tumblr.com) and I'll send you a summary.

Bilbo had never seen Thorin _calm_. He’d seen Thorin blank and he’d seen Thorin… mildly content with current events. But he’d never actually seen Thorin calm, at peace.

It threw him for a loop.

It didn’t help that calmness sat differently on Thorin than on most people. For the first time, Bilbo saw Thorin honest-to-God slouching. In Bilbo’s experience, Thorin’s shoulders were nearly always thrown back, complementing his ramrod straight back, posture trained to perfection. When they weren’t, they were curled inwards completely, in a defensive wince. Now, they were just… lowered. Calm.

Still, Thorin sat down on the floor in front of the low table with the accustomed grace Bilbo couldn’t hope to match. Bilbo plopped down on the floor on the other side of the table, mirroring the slave’s cross-legged pose. Then he sprung up again.

“Oh!” said Bilbo. “One second, I’ll get you some tea. I just brewed a fresh pot a few minutes ago.”

Indeed, a large teapot stood on the table, clad in a bright teacozy adorned with crocheted flowers. Next to it stood a mug, still empty. It was the only bit of the table that wasn’t smothered in papers. Thorin, giving the teacozy a slightly cautious look, nodded jerkily in acquiescence to Bilbo’s offer. Bilbo hurried over to the tiny kitchen area he’d set up (really, a cupboard and a mini-fridge for the essentials) to get an extra mug. No problem in the world couldn’t be helped with tea, in his honest opinion -- even if it _was_ the first week of June.

He bustled about, bringing the extra mug over, along with some milk and sugar. For once, he decided after a swift sidelong glance, Thorin didn’t look stricken at the sight of Bilbo doing little chores. If this was the pleasant result, maybe he should have brought Thorin out to be traumatised earlier, thought Bilbo grimly. A touch of coldness prickled at the base of his skull. No. That was a horrendous thought, even if meant in jest. It would have been far, far better to endure weeks more of Thorin’s anxious distrust than to have forced him to undergo the visit to Thranduil.

“Here you are!” said Bilbo.

He set down what he had fetched, then quickly cleared the table, building up small towers of papers and books around them. Their own personal little fortress. Thorin poured them both tea, adding milk to Bilbo’s exactly as he preferred it as the PA sat back down. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortably, as they sipped.

Finally though, Bilbo prompted Thorin quietly: “You said you had something to tell me..?”

“Yes!” said Thorin and put his mug down. “I…” He turned his head away, looking a little lost, a little self-conscious. “Excuse me, Master Baggins. I’ve never needed to tell anyone the whole story before. It -- it’s pretty long. And it might be a little disjointed.”

Bilbo nodded encouragingly.

“Lucky for you, then,” he said. “I’m pretty good at interpreting disjointed stories, particularly long ones! Have a degree in it and everything, in fact.”

The two shared a small smile, and Thorin seemed to relax further.

“It’s about your sister then..?”

“Yes,” said Thorin again. He still didn’t look at Bilbo’s face, but he wasn’t turned away either; his eyes were focused on his tea as he spoke. “My sister, Dis… and the others. I’m sure you must have wondered at how odd it is -- thirteen slaves, but all of us are male.”

Bilbo’s face was a picture; he was glad now that Thorin wasn’t looking at him. He had _not_ in fact wondered anything of the kind: he had been too busy panicking over the thirteen that he was already responsible for to spare a thought to why there weren’t _more_. (The briefly mentioned sister had been enough of a worry!) He hid his face in his cup of tea, a light blush colouring his cheeks.

Luckily, once Thorin got going, he did not seem to need much input from Bilbo, agreement or otherwise.

“In the beginning, all of us…” the slave hesitated momentarily, then continued on. Soft, sour notes of desperation crept into his voice, though he didn’t look up. “You have to understand, Master: in the beginning, none of us took it all that seriously. I mean, of course we did -- how could we not? But there were a lot of us, and we could draw strength from each other. Even if we were beaten, or fu -- or tortured, we still… We still weren’t _owned_.”

“But..?”

“On paper, yes, of course. But Smaug was -- that is, Master Smaug,” his eyes flickered up briefly to Bilbo, who didn’t give a flying hoot as to how Thorin referred to his employer -- and must have shown it because Thorin’s lips quirked as he carried on, “ _Smaug_ was new money. The first few years, he threw grandiose, opulent parties -- balls, soirées -- to introduce himself and his new status. Most everyone he introduced himself to, though, they knew us -- they knew _me_. Heir to the Durin dynasty -- I -- you did know that, right?" Bilbo hummed in agreement quietly, to keep from interrupting him, though in truth he had found out only the day before. "Some were cruel from the start, naturally. But many… My father’s friends would clap me on the back and ask my opinion on the wine being served, exactly as they had a few months earlier. It was laughable, a joke to them and to us, that the Durins could have fallen so permanently low.”

Bilbo could well imagine it. Not with the Thorin he knew, no. But he’d spent a few hours poking about the internet last night, trying to learn more about the Durin family and the mysterious ARKENSTONE. He had found little about it -- strangely, as he remembered it being a huge scandal at the time. But then again, it was an old story, and it had taken place before Twitter and blogs and the 24 hour news cycle. Maybe what had seemed enormous back then just couldn’t compare to the coverage nowadays. Nevertheless, Bilbo had managed to scrape up a picture of young Thorin from some economics magazine (along with a picture of young Dis, with a little comment underneath about how the youngest of the Oakenshield main family had only been a little over 18 at the time of the arrest).

Young Thorin had had the same nose and cheeks and chin as the Thorin before him now. But that was about all they had in common. The photo had shown a handsome young man, with a wild, lopsided grin on his face; his head was tilted back slightly as he stared down his nose at the camera, daring the world to throw its worst at him. The most striking thing for Bilbo though, was that the Thorin in the photo could look him squarely in the eye.

It was easy enough to picture _that_ Thorin joking easily with the country’s richest men and women. It was not even that difficult to picture him snapping back quickly enough from any sort of abuse -- getting backhanded for not remembering protocol and then rolling his eyes at his torturer. He could maybe even imagine Thorin’s sister throughout it all: the young woman in the photograph, long dark hair and quiet eyes, dragging her brother away from the worst of it, giggling with other young heiresses in hidden nooks.

“It didn’t last, in the long run, of course,” Thorin went on. “Especially when F -- especially after Fre -- ”

The slave’s tone continued to be nonchalant, but there was a curious expression on his face. Bilbo frowned at it for a second more, puzzled. What was..?

_Oh._

“You don’t have to!” burst out of Bilbo. The expression Thorin was making was caused by him trying to speak casually while biting the inside of his lip. Biting it hard enough that he was surely drawing blood. “Don’t, Thorin -- you -- you don’t need to literally tell me _everything_. Please, just… do you want to stop?”

Thorin shook his head tersely, but some of the tension on his face eased as he paused to drink some of his tea ( _helping him swallow the blood_ , supplied Bilbo’s mind).

“No, it’s alright,” said Thorin. But he fumbled for words as he continued. “Especially after… a few years had passed. We began to realise that it was… That is… Dis refused to tell me who Fili or Kili’s father -- fathers? -- were. If it had been one of her friends -- an old boyfriend visiting -- or if it had been like… like with me.”

Bilbo was indeed very good at reading between the lines.

_If Dis had gotten pregnant by getting raped. Like how Thorin had been raped._

He felt as if he had suddenly walked out into an icy rain. And at the same time, a burning shame consumed him -- just a few minutes ago, he had been imagining young Thorin and young Dis with identical confident smirks, even as slaves, grinning insolently at their abusers. _How stupid was he?!_ Even what Thorin clearly considered the good days were so much worse than Bilbo could dream up without Thorin spelling it out for him.

But he didn’t have time to waste on his own feelings for long -- already, Thorin was carrying on, voice wretched, oblivious to Bilbo’s rising horror.

“And the twins, Liv and Siv -- they were sixteen or so by then -- we’d all worked hard to keep them from grasping hands. But one time, I overheard Smaug mention _breeding_ them. And we just -- I just -- ” He took a long, shuddering breath. “Gyda Ri -- she had Ori in her early forties, but the pregnancy went so smooth, I hadn’t realised… Ketilrid was thirty-two and she -- she nearly _died_. She _would_ have died, if some young doctor -- an acquaintance of Greenleaf’s -- hadn’t been visiting the manor. He was barely out of medschool, if that. He heard the commotion, ducked out of the ball.” Thorin’s hands shifted. His fingernails were digging into his palms. “I don’t know -- maybe he just wanted a live body to practice on. Where his professors wouldn’t see. Either way, he helped Oin. He saved her.”

The slave looked away, his eyes going dark with memories, as though he could still see the scene now.

Bilbo thought he could see it too. A tall young doctor, with the same smooth grace as Thranduil, excited and anxious at his first real emergency as he had barked orders. The sleeves of his dress shirt would have been rolled up, the whiteness of the silk speckled with blood. A young woman, desperate, bleeding out on the table Bilbo had eaten cake at. She might have bitten her wrist, perhaps, bravely trying to prevent any further noise drawing the attention of someone less eager to help. Upstairs, the father of her child, her _rapist_ , would had waltzed the night away, unaware and uncaring. And Thorin of course, looking on wide-eyed as he had when it had been his sister on the table, fingernails digging into his palms exactly as they were now, utterly helpless.

Across the table from him, Thorin shook himself a little, coming out of his reverie. Bilbo found himself having to do the same -- though he doubted even his face could look quite as bleak as the slave’s.

“After that…” Thorin continued softly. “We realised how lucky we’d been so far. We realised we couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.” He sighed. “You have to understand, Master: my sister is far more clever than I.”

His fingers drummed on the table listlessly. Bilbo had not before seen him display any sort of quirk -- he had thought idly once that they must have all been beaten out of him long ago.

“I…” Thorin looked up for the first time to face Bilbo properly. His hands moved to grasp his mug. The expression he wore was undecipherable. “I went to Greenleaf.”

Whatever expression flitted over Bilbo’s face -- shock? horror? sick astonishment? -- was clearly not similarly as incomprehensible to Thorin. The slave gave a bark of dark laughter.

“To Greenleaf, yes,” he said bitterly. “He was… he was the only one decent to us, you see? We’d been at different unis, but our fathers were acquaintances, and we’d gone to the same school -- he was only a few years older. Never had much to do with each other, didn’t particularly care for each other really. But of the schoolmates I saw at Smaug’s parties, he was the only one who was decent.” His fingers tightened around the mug. “As I’d said: none of us took it that seriously at first. We played tricks on each other, my schoolmates and I -- quite vicious tricks, sometimes -- just as we had in school. They laughed and clapped me on the back each time -- but Greenleaf was the only one who never reported me to Smaug for punishment afterwards. I was naive.”

There was a vicious sneer on Thorin’s face, though whether he was disgusted by Thranduil or himself Bilbo couldn’t tell.

“Everyone knew he was being trained to take over his father’s company. I thought maybe he could put in a word with us with his father -- or maybe have enough money squirreled away by then himself. Smaug would have agreed to it: he’d wanted closer ties with Mirkwood even then. They wouldn’t have had to sign anything, just shake hands in front of a camera! And the bank was doing well -- everyone wanted in bed with LMB -- it would have been a win for Mirkwood too. So I cornered Greenleaf. Asked.” Thorin’s eyes were wild. “ _He wouldn’t even consider it_.”

“But… if it would have helped his company too, why wouldn’t he -- ”

But even as he spoke, Bilbo knew the answer. _My son will never go the way Thrain Oakenshield's did._ There was a dull ball of lead in his stomach. Smaug had easily destroyed one ancient dynasty when he had the chance to get close -- how hard would it have been for him to destroy another? Had Thranduil’s son been born already, or had the man been scared for someone else? Or perhaps he’d merely been protecting his own skin, when the young wastrels’ little game of pretend slavery had suddenly felt too real. 

It was besides the point. Thorin was shaking his head. His knuckles were bone-white; he held his mug so tight Bilbo feared it would shatter.

“I don’t _care_ why!” spat Thorin. “I fell on my knees in front of him -- I begged him, again and again -- I would have done _anything_. All I asked in return was that they be kept safe -- that my _sister_ be kept safe at least -- my sister, who giggled when he kissed her hand -- my sister, whose hand he continued to kiss when it was dry and cracked from fulfilling Smaug’s whims. My sister, who he’d played hide-and-go-seek with while our fathers talked. Oh, Greenleaf was just like the rest of them in the end -- ” He was incandescent in his hatred, face pulled into a hideous grimace. “ _My sister, who he happily left to her rapists and to her death!_ ”

His hands shifted, and for a brief instant, Bilbo was sure Thorin would throw the cup straight at him. But then the slave’s fingers unclenched, one by one, and he slowly stretched out his trembling hands flat on the table in front of him.

Bilbo and Thorin stared at each other, deathly silent, the chest of the latter still heaving.

Bilbo licked his lips nervously. He wanted to cry. He hoped he was achieving some success at least in keeping a horrid look of pity off his face. The scene of Thorin begging Thranduil he had no need to imagine -- he remembered it plainly enough from yesterday, and he’d gotten an encore performance in his nightmares last night. A younger, desperate Thorin throwing himself at the mercy of the passionless elegance of Thranduil… Bilbo shuddered. He opened his mouth to speak -- though what there was to say he wasn’t sure.

But he was saved from it by a sudden, awful choking sound. Both of them flinched, startled. Thorin whirled around; the sound was coming from behind the door. It was quickly followed by far quieter shushing sounds, along with scuffling.

_What the…?_

“I’ll -- ” began Bilbo, but Thorin got up instead.

He strode over to the door, and jerked it open violently.

Bilbo craned his neck. It was the youngest: Fili, Kili, and Ori. They were kneeling in front of the door, obviously caught eavesdropping. It was Ori who had made the noise, and he looked as though he was trying not to cough now; Kili’s hands were still covering his friend’s mouth, desperately trying to muffle him. The three looked stricken as they stared up at Thorin. They scrambled up as one, Ori clearly caught between giving in to his coughing fit and being terrified of drawing Thorin’s attention.

A look of horror passed over the older slave’s face, but it didn’t linger.

“ _Get. Out!!_ ” he roared at them.

Distantly, Bilbo thought to himself that if his father had shouted at him like that at their age, he would have scampered. But these youngsters were evidently made of sterner stuff; they held their ground. Fili stepped in front the others and drew himself up.

“We won’t!” He spoke quickly even as Thorin took in a deep breath to yell again. “She’s our _mother_ , Thorin. And nobody ever tells us what happened when we were kids. We have a right to know!”

Kili popped up next to him, nodding in support. Immediately, his brother shoved him back slightly. Despite how pale his face was, he was completely ready to go toe to toe with his uncle, alone. Truth be told, Bilbo realised with a twinge, the protective gesture reminded Bilbo keenly of none other than Thorin himself.

Evidently, Thorin felt similarly. His lips twisted unpleasantly, and he ducked his head. He breathed out, a long, low hiss through gritted teeth as he visibly pulled himself back from his rage.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “Fine. You were here from the start?” Three silent, wide-eyed nods answered him. Thorin’s shoulders slumped. “Then you’ve heard the worst of it already. You may as well come in for the rest.”

The little group trooped inside and positioned themselves around the table, in-between the piles of papers. For once, they behaved exactly as teenagers should behave towards adults, that is, paying them little mind; their eyes were still on Thorin, and they barely even nodded a greeting at Bilbo. Bilbo itched to fuss over them, get them a mug of something hot (Ori in particular). Each was paler than the last. But Thorin looked frazzled enough already, nerves completely taut. He shot the youngsters a dark look as he sat back down. Interrupting the proceedings would surely only remind Thorin of the protocols being broken, and set him to yelling again.

So Bilbo said only: “What happened then?”

The dark-haired slave sighed heavily.

“Well, Dis was always the smart one.” Fili startled visibly at the name, while Kili’s face went blank. “I cursed Greenleaf out, spat on him, swung at him. When the overseers finally got there to pull us apart, he had a broken nose and two loose teeth, I was bleeding heavily from a busted lip -- and then I bled some more from my punishment.” A brief, oddly satisfied look crossed Thorin’s face, clearly spelling out It Was Worth It. But it lasted only a moment. “After that, I despaired. Dis didn’t.”

He let his head fall into his hands, arms propping him up on the table, heel of his palms digging into his eyes. Bilbo bit his lip. But despite how desperately he looked as though he just wanted to get it over with, Thorin spoke clearly.

“Dis… she must have realised when Fr -- she must have realised a while back, what Smaug truly wished for. Money, fame… None of it was as close to his heart as _power_. Power over us, the Oakenshields. Complete and total power, that he could show off proudly before all the people who had looked down their noses at him and laughed. That was what would let him know he had truly won. A few months after my encounter with Greenleaf, Dis decided to offer it to him.” At that, Kili let out a small keening noise, and cut himself off abruptly. “No more games, no more fighting back. If he commanded her, before all her former schoolmates and friends, to put her hand in the fire, she would do it with a smile, and keep it there until he deigned to let her take it out. In return: all the other women would be moved to another house, where Smaug didn’t entertain guests.”

_If you sell your soul to the devil willingly…_

“I don’t know why she went to Dwalin that night. Maybe she wanted a last brief moment of comfort. Maybe she just wanted to inform someone of her plan in case things went badly. Whatever the case, after hearing her out, Dwalin came straight to me. As for me,” Underneath his hands, Bilbo could spot a faint smile. Fili shifted uncomfortably at the sight of it, cheeks tinged a pale green. “I caught up to Dis as she was going up the stairs. I knocked her out and took her place. Dis had thought of a good plan, it worked very well.” He lifted his head from his hands, meeting Bilbo’s gaze. “And here I am now -- Thorin Oakenshield of the Durin main branch, whipping boy supreme. At your service.”

He swept a mocking bow.

Still, as he sat back up, Bilbo saw that strange calmness creep back over Thorin’s face. It was as though finishing his story settled something in him, a burden lifted from his shoulders.

Maybe it did.

For the first time in over a decade, Bilbo realised, suddenly dizzy, Thorin was willingly looking to an outsider for help. He had willingly trusted _Bilbo_ with his story, with something he hadn’t wanted to tell his own kin. The last time he had trusted an outsider, it had ended badly -- so badly he had ended up having to sell his very being instead.

They had known each other for less than two months. If Bilbo ended up breaking Thorin’s trust, even accidentally... Despite the summer warmth, he shivered. He threw back the rest of his cold tea quickly. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” said Fili quietly. “You always threw yourself in front of us -- but I didn’t realise you had an actual _deal_ with him. Why didn’t you tell us what had happened?”

“Did you want to hear about all my humiliations so very badly?” asked Thorin mildly, raising an eyebrow.

Fili flushed. “No! But if you’d said something, I could have helped -- I’m an Oakenshield too, Uncle!”

Bilbo and Thorin exchanged identical looks of alarm. The young fool -- no wonder Thorin had kept his arrangements with Smaug quiet from him.

“ _And that’s exactly why!_ ” the slave said roughly. His eyes were wide. “Your mother would never forgive me -- _I_ would never forgive myself. Promise me, Fili, right here and now, that no matter what happens, you won’t try to help!”

Fili hesitated for a moment, then nodded sharply, eyes as wide as his uncle’s. It did not seem altogether too convincing to Bilbo, but he didn’t know how to press. It was a private matter between the two Oakenshields -- he did not have the authority to step in. Thorin looked vaguely satisfied, at least.

“But how come Mother never said anything?” said Kili. His eyes were red, Bilbo noted in dismay; he looked very young. He fingers were curled tightly around something, a smooth stone perhaps.

“I don’t know,” replied Thorin. He looked away. “She doesn’t talk to me much anymore. Dis always knew how to carry a grudge. Perhaps she’d rather spend what little time she gets with you on happier matters.”

“Do you still get to see her then?” asked Bilbo, startled.

“They come to visit for a few days each year,” said Ori softly. “Sometimes twice: in Spring and Autumn, usually. Mum always told me it was to help with the spring cleaning, and to help set up the house for when Master Smaug entertains in the winter. But that isn’t really why, is it?”

Thorin shook his head. “It’s to let us know his end of the deal is being held up, so _my_ end of the deal stays held up. If I find out it isn’t… Well, it’s very embarrassing when your highly prized, immaculately trained slave suddenly breaks out of character, you know. It’d earn him some very unwanted attention before he has me shot.”

He smirked and Bilbo felt sick at the sight of it. Thorin was wearing the same expression of satisfaction at a job well done as he had when talking about breaking Thranduil’s nose.

 _Before he has me shot_.

Like it was an obvious conclusion to this bizarre double-hostage situation he’d maneuvered himself into. Bilbo breathed in and out deeply through his nose. Thorin looked so _proud_ of himself, so genuinely proud, how could Bilbo step in? He didn’t think he could respond to this ‘plan’ without screaming.

“How many are there in the other house?” he asked instead, the slightest of quivers only on the last note.

“Our mother, Ori’s mother, and ten more,” piped up Fili. “Gimli’s the only boy -- it’s just a fluke he ended up there then, and not here. I don’t know -- will they move him here when he’s older, Uncle Thorin?”

“I don’t know,” said Thorin. He shot Bilbo a quick sidelong glance. Gandalf’s words were clearly heavy on both their minds -- maybe they wouldn’t have to find out what would was supposed to happen to Gimli when he got older. “Gimli is Gloin’s boy, Gloin and Aile’s. The only child born after we split into two households.” Thorin rolled his eyes, wise and world-weary though he couldn’t be more than a couple years older than Gloin. “They’ve been sweethearts since they were young -- and real idiots too.”

“And Greenleaf?” asked Ori, even softer than before.

“The next time I saw him was yesterday. Don’t know why Smaug ordered me to go -- I suppose I was a peace offering? Smaug knows there’s no love lost between us, perhaps he thought giving Greenleaf the chance to take his pound of flesh was a fine offer of friendship.”

The young slaves all nodded along knowledgably. Of course, such an offer would not seem as preposterously unreasonable to them as it did to Bilbo. (Was it even unreasonable? Inhumane, certainly, but for all he knew Thorin had been lent out like this before.) The PA busied himself pouring the last dredges of the tea into his cup to hide his revulsion.

Besides which, Thranduil himself, rightly or wrongly, had interpreted Smaug’s actions as a threat. Did Thorin remember his enemy’s fear, or had he been too terrified to have heard anything but orders? (Small wonder, if he was convinced Thranduil still held a grudge from their last, truly horrible encounter. One wrong word from either Bilbo or Thranduil about Thorin having been the cause of the meeting going badly… Bilbo resolved to leave a few days before writing to Smaug, to plan properly what exact words to use.)

“In any case,” said Thorin awkwardly. “That’s… that’s about it. Now you know.”

“Now I know,” echoed Bilbo.

Now he knew there were another twelve people suffering.

Now he knew any wrong word from him to Smaug could send them all tumbling into an even deeper circle of hell, and get Thorin _killed_.

Now he knew… now he knew Thorin trusted him, _relied_ on him, trusted that Bilbo would help them all instead of using it to torture them, instead of running for the hills.

“ _Thank you_ , Thorin,” said Bilbo. “Thank you for telling me. I… We’re going to figure it out. _Together_.”

Thorin nodded at him, a wide smile on his face, only the very corners of which were hesitant.

“Together,” he agreed.

Bilbo smiled back.

\--*--*--

Bilbo waited at the door for a good long minute after Thorin and the youngsters left, listening to their receding footsteps with his forehead pressed against the wood. When he was satisfied they were gone, he went across the hall to the bathroom, where he promptly threw up.

His hands shook as he flushed and rinsed his mouth out.

He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussions of: rape, violence, forced pregnancy, pregnancy almost resulting in death. Please tell me if I missed something!


End file.
